


Where Paths Cross

by orphan_account



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Angst and Feels, Canon Era, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Family, Family Drama, Family Secrets, Fluff and Humor, Heavy Angst, Terminal Illnesses, tuberculosis
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-01
Updated: 2019-11-20
Packaged: 2021-02-13 16:06:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 33,113
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21496825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Annette de Courfeyrac humored her bourgeois father, having perfect manners, attending soirees, and, most importantly, being charming to all interested suitors. She hid her secret allegiance with the Daughters of the Republic, a woman's revolutionary group. What happens when the group joins forces with the Friends of the ABC? DISCONTINUED
Relationships: Combeferre/Éponine Thénardier, Enjolras (Les Misérables)/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 6





	1. chapter 3

Eponine sat in an armchair across from Combeferre, wrapped in a blanket and holding a steaming mug in her hands. Combeferre felt guilty, she could tell. Every few minutes he would fetch her more tea, and Eponine struggled to keep up.

When she heard about Courfeyrac getting shot, and Blaise getting away, she'd suddenly remembered hundreds of old curses she'd picked up from her father. Combeferre assured her that Courfeyrac would be fine, Annette and Enjolras were with him. Guilt still squeezed its way into Eponine's mind. If only she'd waited a minute, she could have helped them.

Instead she was here, the subject of Combeferre's anxiety. She secretly knew he was worried about Courfeyrac despite all of his repetitions about the bullet going straight through, so she let him fuss.

"It's my fault now if you fall ill," Combeferre said, frowning. He kept shaking his head at himself. He looked as though there was something he wanted to say, or ask, yet he restrained himself.

"You think a little fall of rain can hurt me? I once slept in the snow for a week in only my chemise." Eponine remembered the bitter days, which seemed so long ago, yet she could never shake herself free from them.

Combeferre watched her in an unsettling new way, and Eponine glared at him defensively. "What?"

Combeferre cleared his throat and pushed up his glasses. "Sometimes when you speak of your hardships, it truly is surreal that you can take it so lightly."

Eponine narrowed her eyes. "Do you want me to cry about a sad childhood? You're soft, Auguste."

Combeferre smiled a bit. "Is that a bad thing?"

Eponine nodded seriously, imitating his seriousness and pushed up her imaginary glasses. "Yes, indeed. I fear, Monsieur, you have but a few days before the softness takes you in your sleep."

"Prescribe me some of your medicine, then," Combeferre teased her. "What'll it be?"

"Ten years of hardship and misery," Eponine said. She smiled to let him know she didn't mind this topic. She might have, once, but not now.

Eponine paused, watching Combeferre's surprisingly easy smile, noticing the contradicting strained look in his eyes.

"It's been a while since we have had any fun together," she remarked.

Combeferre's smile faded almost unnoticeably. "There have been events to distract us, I suppose."

"Do you remember when you tricked me into reading Othello? You told me it was a comedy!"

"A good tragedy every now and then helps us remain human," Combeferre said. He looked smug. "You didn't seem to mind after that. You devoured Romeo and Juliet _and_ Macbeth. What do you have against tragedies?"

"There's enough tragedy in the world as it is," Eponine muttered. She sighed. "I suppose it is romantic. I cannot imagine killing myself for a man, though."

Combeferre chuckled and shrugged. "I am quite sure Juliet did not either. Perhaps it all comes in the moment."

Eponine thought for a while. "I do not want my life to be a tragedy," she said.

Combeferre looked out the window. The rain pattered gently, and Eponine found it soothing and rhythmic now she was on the better side of it.

"Neither do I."

They remained as such for a while, sometimes talking, but mostly silent. Finally, the topic that had been worrying Eponine for a while came up.

"What do you think is going to happen now? With Blaise, I mean."

"I don't know. I would assume he would disguise himself for a while, since he will be one of most hunted criminals in Paris. In such a crowded city, he would not have to work too hard to conceal himself.

"So much for bringing about a new future for France," Eponine said. "It's difficult enough to manage our own problems."

Combeferre made a sound of agreement, and suddenly he remembered something. "Ah, yes. Enjolras and I were discussing this a few days ago, before this happened. He has a new idea for the revolution."

Eponine prepared herself to dismiss whatever idea this was. How could anyone expect her to care about this when there were other things happening? Courfeyrac in the hospital? Blaise free? She, Eponine, completely alone with Combeferre?

"Oh?" She said casually. "What is this brilliant new idea?"

"Well, you understand how Annette had to leave the Daughters of the Republic for a while? Enjolras went in her place several times, for quite a while now. Somehow, I don't know how, he managed to rally more members with the women and many of their families."

Remembering Enjolras' "statue-like beauty," Eponine could imagine how. There were occasions she still snickered at when she remembered all the grisettes that used to flirt unabashedly with him. It had taken Annette long enough to get to him.

"So?" She asked impatiently. "All that means is more people will be talking about battle without actually getting anything done. It's been _years_, Auguste. Has anybody actually accomplished anything?"

Combeferre sighed. "No. Besides the occasional successful rally or strike, though those could be considered successes, just not on so large a scale. But Enjolras does believe we have a chance. He is planning something soon, and he does not talk to me about it anymore."

Eponine drew the blankets around her tighter for warmth. She wondered vaguely when she had stopped believing in this revolution. Or, had she ever believed in it to begin with?

Eponine looked at the little old clock resting on the fireplace. It was late, very late. So late it was early in the morning. She suddenly found herself to be exhausted.

"I suppose I should get home," she said as she rose tiredly. She heard her joints creak from misuse, and she winced as she stretched them.

Combeferre stood and went to the window. "It's still pouring. I'll leave in about an hour to see Courfeyrac, so if you want you can rest here." He said this casually, and Eponine was glad he couldn't see her face.

"Fine," she said breezily, and sat back down.

Combeferre smiled wryly. "You could use the extra bed. I suppose you've already made yourself familiar with it once."

Now Eponine shrugged. "You should fix that mattress. If creaks too much," and smiled as though the thought of sleeping in Combeferre's bed wasn't completely embarrassing.

Combeferre nodded, but seemed distant. He looked out the window again, as though he were waiting for someone. Eponine decided that this might be the time to practice her empathy skills.

"Are you expecting someone?" She asked, to be safe. Not that she cared all that much, or anything.

Combeferre shook his head, his eyes still on that damn window.

Fine. Time to be _empathetic_.

"Is everything alright?"

Combeferre's eyes locked into hers just then, and he shook his head.

Eponine stared back. Something was wrong? With _Combeferre_? What should she do? What did he do when she was upset?

He always left her to her own space until she started talking again. But Eponine suspected he worked differently.

"You needn't worry, Eponine. I'll be alright. It has been a long and trying day, is all." His voice was gentle and sad, and a queasy feeling in her stomach told her it was her fault.

Eponine sighed. "Don't go to the hospital then, and go sleep. Otherwise you'll collapse on the streets."

"If you would rather—"

Eponine knew what he was going to say. "Auguste, it is your home. Take one room and I'll take the other. There's no need to be a prude."

Combeferre nodded vaguely, and before retiring to Enjolras' room, Eponine said, "'Night, Auguste. Everything will be fine."

As she lay awake, nearly asleep, she couldn't help but laugh to herself at just how _powerful_ Combeferre's snores were. They shook the very foundation of this building. Well, it was something she could tease him about later.

* * *

Enjolras hardly dared to breathe when he uttered those words. It had been easy, spur of the moment, when for months he'd been wondering when the time would come. He watched Annette's eyes grow wide and her mouth drop, and she let out a strangled sound that caused him a flash of panic for a moment.

She didn't say anything for the longest time, and she seemed completely breathless. Enjolras traced the familiar slopes of her features with his eyes, determined to always remember this moment. The moment when she said yes, the moment that proved he was not empty, unfeeling, made of marble. Proof that it was possible for him to love and be loved in return. More than anything, to know she wanted him like he wanted her.

Annette's hands fell through his and she turned away. Before she even spoke a cold feeling of dread settled in Enjolras' stomach.

"I can't, _mon ange,_" she said softly. "I cannot commit the rest of my life to you only for it to be destroyed in such a short time. I don't want to leave you a widower of all things."

Something hot and angry and burning stirred in Enjolras. An unfamiliar feeling of desperation overwhelmed him; it was as though he were drowning, and reaching for the one who could lift him from the darkness.

"You told me you loved me," Enjolras said, feeling himself spiral out of control. It was all he could do to stop his hands and his voice and his world from shaking. Even that was not enough. His senses were spinning, hurtling far away. Something in him knew that this was wrong, he shouldn't say these things to make her feel worse. But as with everything, he would fight. He would fight for her, for the world he had never known he'd wanted.

Annette faced him again, and Enjolras noted the steely resolve in them. He was all too familiar with that look. It always came when she'd set her mind to do something he didn't agree with. Finding her father. Going through with the whole stupid plan that got Courfeyrac hurt. Hurting herself everyday because she couldn't bear to acknowledge that she would have to slow down, and one day stop completely. Those were the days he visited to see her collapsed on the floor, waiting to die. That look had been present in their fights, the ones that had him frustrated for nights on end, the ones that hurt them both. That look was for bad things, sad things, unhappy things.

And he had just asked her to marry him.

"You know I do. More than my _life_, and that's why I'm doing this. I want you to remember me at my best, our best, and not..."

He could see her hands shake, as they did when she was nervous or afraid. The urge to take them in his again was too strong, and he felt himself fall back into the calm, steady, and cool mold of the marble Enjolras he used to be. The man he'd been before he'd met her, before he'd known anything.

"Not what, Annette?" The voice wasn't his; it couldn't be. It was too fast; it snapped at her. It wasn't kind or gentle; it was harsh and rough. No, that couldn't be his voice.

But when he saw her hands drop to her sides, that steely resolve replaced with hurt, he knew it was and his heart clawed at him viciously.

"My mother died like this," Annette said, staring at the ground. She stepped away from him, moving to the one tiny window in the cramped hallway. She crossed her arms to her chest, her jaw tight. "It's not tragic and poetic and beautiful. There is nothing beautiful or bittersweet. It hurts. Seeing her like that—having given up all hope—she was begging the doctor to put her out of her misery. So why—" her voice broke into muffled sobs as she hid her face in her hands.

Enjolras, frozen with this new information, stood there like an idiot, waiting for her to continue.

"I don't want you to see me like that. I've tried, I've tried so hard to keep going and pretend I am alright. Ever since before I even knew you it hurt. And I have almost reached my end."

Enjolras' throat was dry, and when he opened his mouth the words came out choked. "So you wish to never see me again?"

Annette hesitated, her eyes red from crying. "That's not what I am saying. Only—I can't marry you. It's too late for me. And as I said, I have to find my father. Before I die, Enjolras, I just want to know who he is. Will you help me?"

Enjolras swallowed the hateful taste in his mouth on hearing her talk once more about that unknown man. Didn't she know it was useless? Whichever way it ended, whether he were alive or dead, her father didn't have all the answers. She should forget him, forget all of her past. Why did she have to leave him now, after all they had been through together?

The cold and hard feeling of detachment returned to Enjolras and he knew it showed on his face. Help her find her father? The one thing she knew he could never do, was the only thing she wanted. And he knew he wasn't a good enough man to do it for her.

"You know I can't," he said. He tried to bring himself to meet her eyes, but he couldn't. "You must forget him, Annette. I do not understand how you could possibly believe—"

"Yes, I know!" Annette fired suddenly, her voice rising. "I know you do not believe in this. You have made that clear. But if you don't believe I can find him, then you do not believe in me."

Enjolras stared at her, frozen, and the look in her eye told him she was saying exactly what she meant. The question was in her words: did Enjolras believe in Annette?

—

Annette waited. She waited for seconds, for minutes, long, excruciating minutes that stretched into hours that turned into years. Still Enjolras stood before her, silent and made of stone. Not a word passed from his lips, and resignation dragged Annette's eyes from his face, telling her to stop. She had done what she had needed to do, hadn't she? She was being cruel, she was hurting him.

As she looked away from him she knew no amount of pain or sickness could ever compare with the agony she felt now. This was the kind thing, the right thing. She knew it was, or else it wouldn't hurt this much.

Bells chimed in her ears; she forced them out. A flash of white veils and flowers burned in her mind, then were gone. The image of waking up every day to see his face came and went, extinguished as a candle's flame.

Annette drew a sharp breath, and felt the hollow rattle in her chest. It was part of her now, as though it were another person that had control over her. _We are the same now. We die together,_ it said.

Annette started walking away, back down the halls and corridors. She passed Courfeyrac's room once more, and hesitated before it. But she continued on, and only then remembered how far from home she was. She had no money to get a carriage home, and she certainly couldn't make the journey that would take at least three hours on foot. She turned again, uncertain and a little panicked. After what had just happened she did not want to share the ride back with Enjolras. The idea of going back to ask for money was humiliating, and she would rather walk.

Thankfully she would not need to. As she passed Courfeyrac's door again she met with Combeferre, who was just leaving.

"Combeferre!" Annette said with relief. Combeferre looked at her with faint surprise.

"You're still here, Annette? Where is Enjolras?"

Annette wondered what she was going to say. That she left him a while ago in another part of the building? That their worlds had crashed and burned to the ground in the moments they had seen each other?

Instead, she shrugged. Frankly, she didn't know whether he was still there, or if he had already left.

Combeferre silently offered her his arm, and, taking it, they began to make their way to the exit of the hospital. If he saw her red-rimmed eyes or shaking hands he said nothing. As they neared the door they heard Enjolras call out to them.

As they met, Annette did not look at him, and knew he did the same.

"Combeferre, can you take her home? I will stay here with Courfeyrac."

Combeferre nodded grimly. "They're moving him tonight. There's been an outbreak of cholera, and they can't afford to have him here anymore. We have to find a way to get him home tonight, and figure out what we will do. I'll return in a few hours."

Enjolras nodded, and left without another word. For some reason his exit brought tears to Annette's eyes, and she had to bite her lip to stop them from falling.

Outside, Combeferre got them a carriage and soon they were on their way. The rolling wheels over the uneven cobblestones caused the carriage to shake and clatter over the road, occasionally jolting the passengers from their seats. A long time passed before Combeferre spoke.

"Did you speak with Courfeyrac? He was asleep when I came."

"Yes." Annette stared hollowly out the window, remembering the brief conversation with her brother. Would he approve of what she was doing?

"Did he seem to be in much pain? I'm not sure what the doctors are giving him there, and we'll need to help him through his recovery."

Combeferre's attitude was analytical, and his coolness helped take her mind from the hot whirlpool of emotions she found herself in. She took a breath to steady herself, and recalled her mind back to Courfeyrac. He must have put on a brave front for her, because the nurse had told her the doctor had only prescribed some ointment for the wound, and nothing as of yet for the pain.

On hearing this Combeferre frowned. Again he relapsed into silence. Suddenly Annette wanted to speak, to spill out her insides and have someone know. She wanted it to be Courfeyrac more than anyone, but he wasn't here. _He wasn't here._

Combeferre met Annette's eyes just then and he must have seen the pitiful desperation in them.

"He asked for your hand, didn't he?"

Annette nodded, staring down at her lap as the tears fell freely now. Her hands began to shake again, and she suddenly lost all control.

Combeferre switched seats so he was sitting next to her. Annette found some comfort in his closeness, despite the eeriness of her transparency to Combeferre.

"You gave him a different answer than he was expecting."

Annette nodded again, wiping her face from the hot tears that drowned her. "I—I told him—we don't _have_ a future together. That's when he asked me. But I couldn't— I couldn't say yes." Her words came out jagged and irregular as she forced herself to relive those terrible moments. What should have been the peak of her happiness was in reality the peak of her misery.

Combeferre's eyes were sharp and searching. "Why did you tell him this?"

Annette said nothing. She'd already gone through the explanation, first with Courfeyrac, then with Enjolras. Both times had been terrible, and she didn't want to relive it.

But the look Combeferre gave her demanded an explanation.

"Enjolras is my friend, Annette, my _brother_. Tell me why, after all the trouble it's taken me to get him to consider other things besides revolution, you tell him this?"

Annette's heart sank in her chest. This was going to be humiliating.

So she told him. She told him what she'd told Courfeyrac, what she'd told Enjolras, and more. She told him things she hadn't told either of them. She told him how she didn't want to count the moments she spent with Enjolras and everybody else, and wonder which day would be her last with him. She told him she was afraid of the end, and didn't want him to see that she was afraid.

After this, Combeferre put an arm around her shoulders and she didn't remember much besides crying for a long time. She thought he might have cried too, but she was too exhausted to tell.

When the carriage stopped in front of Annette's apartment, she dreaded going inside to spend the night with Madame Poisson again. She didn't want the old lady to fuss again, and talk endlessly about her dead son and force Annette to eat twenty pounds of chicken and rice. As much as Annette was grateful to her, all she wanted was meaningful companionship.

When she climbed out, she was surprised that Combeferre did as well. _He'll be walking home, then,_ she thought. She began to slowly make her way up to the building.

"Annette, wait," Combeferre said.

Annette turned around.

"Would you be up to talking a bit more? We should discuss Courfeyrac, and..."

Annette nodded, relieved for the present distraction, and they found a conveniently placed bench to sit down on.

"It will take a couple of weeks for Courfeyrac to heal, and he will need help with things. Joly says he will move in with him so he is always around, so we needn't worry on that head."

Knowing Joly, he meant, Courfeyrac would be _very_ well taken care of.

"And Annette, perhaps you—"

"Yes? I can help with anything," Annette said quickly.

Combeferre shook his head, clearly awkward. "I think the best thing would be for you hold off from seeing Courfeyrac for a while. He needs to heal, and...frankly, Annette, so do you. These past few months have been too much, and you will not improve anything by not getting rest and stressing yourself. I know you've been avoiding talking about—your condition, but it hasn't helped that everybody else does too. I know it's hard, but you mustn't count your days. Live them. What do you want to do?"

Annette looked up at the sky, at the flocks of birds flying overhead, returning for summer. She longed to be one of them, so she could fly away, away from her problems.

"I want to find my father."

Combeferre let out a long sigh. "Very well then. I suppose that is what we must do."

* * *

As March of 1832 relinquished its hold on spring, April came swiftly to take her place. The skies were fresh with the frequent rainfalls, the new grass burst from the ground with a vibrant enthusiasm, and the trees had at last shed their remaining layers of snow and ice. All this promised new growth and discovery, which these dear characters were soon to realize.

Courfeyrac healed steadily, and as promised, Joly dutifully attended to his every need, no matter how absurd it proved to be. Comfort for the patient should be top priority, was what he would declare and later mutter to himself as he performed some rather degrading tasks.

"Put on a play for me, Joly," Courfeyrac whined goodnaturedly.

"I have to study, Courfeyrac," Joly muttered as he flipped through an endless sea of notes.

A secret grin tugged at the corners of Courfeyrac's lips. "Something to distract me from the pain, please, just for a moment." A well timed moan or gesture to the wound would elicit Joly's sympathy, and the poor medical student never stood a chance to Courfeyrac's calculated charms.

Combeferre watched these interactions with amusement and later retold them to Annette and Eponine. Annette pitied Joly and shook her head at Courfeyrac's manipulation, but Eponine grinned at the strategy.

"Admirable, really! He's got Joly on beck and call."

Still Annette was gently kept from seeing Courfeyrac by both Combeferre and Eponine. It was best not to indulge human weakness, after all, and they would see each other soon enough. As for Courfeyrac, he was a bit puzzled as to why his sister was the only one who hadn't yet come to see him. He even made Joly memorize all the parts to Act I of Merchant of Venice, knowing it was Annette's favorite, and waited to have her laugh with him about Joly's fine acting.

Annette, Eponine, Combeferre and occasionally Grantaire had meanwhile taken it upon themselves to begin the search for Annette's father.

As it turned out, there were many men of the name of Gustave Reneau at this time in Paris alone. Of course, more information of his background would be needed, which was the one thing they lacked. So this man had been in the French army? A sergeant, yes, but what else? Where had he gone after his interest in Madame de Courfeyrac? Could he possibly, truly be dead? Or had he never left? Had he remained the lover of Madame de Courfeyrac until her death? Or had he vanished years before, around the time of Annette's birth?

These were the details they needed to know. It was a truly daunting task, but once they knew these facts, they could truly begin the search. Annette was in despair at ever finding anything until one day, Courfeyrac imparted something to Combeferre.

"She's looking for him, you say?" Courfeyrac said with a small sigh, twirling his curls with his fingers. "I suppose I might as well say now, I visited my father a few months ago and got some useful stuff out of him. Even found a miniature portrait of my mother's, though it's old."

Combeferre thanked him, and when he presented the portrait to Annette, she grasped it and traced every line of the man's face delicately with her finger. Her brow furrowed, and her eyes began to well up.

Combeferre too had studied the man in the picture. The portrait must have been made when he was around four or five and twenty, as Annette now was. He saw in the man everything Annette was. Curved, short nose, keen blue eyes, sharp chin, thick and curling black hair, and high cheekbones. Even his attitude shone through the picture, playful and cocky, as Annette still was.

Annette looked to Combeferre. "I know him, Combeferre. I remember his face. Why do I remember him? Why?"

Combeferre sat a long moment with his chin in his hand. Then, all of a sudden, inspired, he looked up.

"When you believed you were adopted—before you discovered your father's existence—I remember you used to say you'd been with the family fifteen years. You were twenty, then. Who were you the first five years of your life?"

Annette stared at him, dumbfounded, as realization appeared in her face. "I never knew why, I never asked. All I was told was 'it was 1813'. I always thought it was with my dead parents I'd lived with."

"Perhaps it was," Combeferre murmured. "It is possible it might have been your father."

Annette took the portrait again, rubbing the edges and appearing as if trying to discern the similarities between the picture and her memory of the man. After a while, she looked up with soft eyes at Combeferre.

"Thank you, Combeferre. For helping me, I mean. I know you were never very enthusiastic regarding the subject either. You and Enjolras—" here she stopped.

Combeferre observed her silently, seeing the flitting anger and sadness as she mentioned his friend.

"Regardless of my opinion, of course I will help you in whatever way I can render myself of use to you. Though, I suppose I might have to request a favor of you in return," he said.

Annette grew serious and nodded. "Anything," she said. "Well, within reason, actually. I cross the line at murder, unless it's Bossuet. He jammed the piano yesterday, and I just got new sheet music," she added, shaking her head.

Combeferre looked at the notes he'd carried with the tidbits of information Courfeyrac had been able to give him. Before he showed them to Annette, he wanted to do something else.

"Could you go to my apartment and get a few of my books? I think I may have an idea that will help us find your father."

Annette stiffened. Suspicion flashed in her eyes and Combeferre knew she was wary of ever going to his and Enjolras' abode.

"Really? Of anything, this is what you'd like in return?" She asked tensely.

Combeferre nodded and checked his watch. _He should be home now, _he thought. He gave her a smile and said, "Could you go now? I really appreciate it." He ripped a piece of paper from his notes and scribbled the titles for her.

Annette snatched the paper and sighed. "Frankenstein? At least _try_ to be a little less obvious, Combeferre."

"What can I say? Perhaps the mystery of Mary Shelley's monster will aid us in the mystery of your father." It took a bit of restraint for Combeferre not to chuckle when he saw Annette's face; but then, he was used to it by now.

Annette shot him a vicious glare, but he casually waved the notes about her father and she stopped. "This is blackmail, Combeferre. I thought you were better than this."

"What?" Combeferre asked innocently. "You're just retrieving some important books. Besides, it's for your own good," he added indulgently with a churlish grin.

Annette gave him a good natured smack on the arm and began to collect her belongings. "I fear Eponine's been a bad influence on you, then. Well, you needn't worry about my taking too long. All I am doing is getting your books."

"Of course," Combeferre replied serenely. He waved as she left, smiling secretly to himself.

It was time for Annette and Enjolras to reconcile once and for all.

—

Annette had to stop several times on the street to stop her heart from pounding so terribly in her chest. _Breathe_, she told herself. _There's no reason you'll have to talk to Enjolras for anything at all. You might not even have to see him._ But knowing Combeferre, that wouldn't be true. She knew he'd been trying to find a way to get her and Enjolras to interact somehow again. Since Courfeyrac had left the hospital, she hadn't so much as heard Enjolras' name spoken. Apparently the rest of the Amis learned very quickly of their estrangement, and thought it best to avoid the topic of their leader.

Annette entered the building, almost wheezing with anxiety. _You are strong!_ She screamed at herself. _You did the right thing, and one day he'll know it. Stop pitying yourself and get through this._

She knocked. Once, twice, thrice, four times, and she didn't stop. She couldn't control her hand that wouldn't stop knocking, and she cringed inside as she felt how irritating she was being.

The door opened, revealing Enjolras with a scowl on his face, clearly about to tell off the knocker. Upon recognizing Annette, his face froze and he grew stony.

"What are you doing here?" His voice was cool and clipped, and Annette stared at the ground. Then she remembered what she'd told herself. _Pick yourself up._

She would be strong, she would keep it together. She looked up, meeting Enjolras' icy stare.

"Combeferre wanted me to pick up some of his books."

Silently Enjolras let her in, shutting the door. Annette swallowed hard, avoiding looking at him, and took out the list again. It was absolutely ridiculous. The obscure list ranged from Frankenstein to Jane Austen novels to books about gardening.

From the corner of her eye she saw Enjolras retreat to his room and snap the door shut, leaving her alone in the apartment. She began to finger through the stacks of books on the shelves and tables. Really, the books were everywhere. It was all unorganized and chaotic. Annette recognized with an unwitting smile several titles that absolutely belonged to Enjolras. Accounts of the revolutions and uprisings of France, biographies and selected writings of Robespierre, worn and clearly read many times before.

Annette found herself organizing the books by genre as she went along, searching for the books. She told herself it was because she owed it to Combeferre to at least tidy it up a bit, but she knew she was stalling. She'd always enjoyed the apartment that showed the inner workings of Enjolras' daily life. So many things had taken place here.

Yet when the common room had been completely ransacked and organized, Annette found that none of the books in the list had been gathered. She entered Combeferre's room with trepidation, but again, found only his textbooks and pages upon pages of his handwritten notes.

Suddenly fear slammed into her chest and she cursed Combeferre. Either he had made up the books he knew he didn't own, or he had placed them in the only place she hadn't yet searched.

_Enjolras' room._

Annette collapsed onto a chair, holding her head in her hands. She could just leave now. Forget about Combeferre's favor. She could run right out the door and never see Enjolras again. But then Combeferre might not show her the information about her father.

With her heart in her throat, Annette rose and knocked on the door twice before she could stop herself. There was a long pause, and Enjolras' gruff voice saying, "Come in," and for the first time Annette saw his bedroom.

The small, square, room was bare of any decoration or unnecessary furnishing, with only a bed pushed in the corner and a large oaken desk in the middle of the room. Books lined the shelves along one wall, and a single, battered map of the streets of Paris filled a small patch of another. A pile of coats and shirts stood partly obscured in a pile on the bed, which Annette guesses Enjolras must have thrown there before she entered. A small three legged chair was positioned awkwardly against the wall, which Annette vaguely thought as curious. Enjolras himself sat at his desk, his eyes glued to the papers in front of him.

"Yes, Mademoiselle?"

Annette felt her skin grow cold at his formality, and felt her knees begin to buckle beneath her.

"I...I think Combeferre's books are here, I've already searched everywhere and couldn't find anything, though I must have checked every shelf and table and—" she felt herself rambling and stopped, trying to slow her breathing.

Enjolras sighed. "Which books are you looking for?"

Annette silently handed him the list, making sure their hands didn't brush as the paper passed from her hand. She clenched her fists in her skirts so her hands wouldn't shake. She was calm, confident, collected. She was calm, confident, terror-stricken. Calm...hysterical...unnerved. She was unhinged, she felt.

Enjolras scoffed in disbelief at the list. Annette laughed nervously.

"I don't suppose you—"

"That's why Combeferre brought those in yesterday," Enjolras interrupted angrily. He stood and went to a corner and retrieved a stack of books, and dropped them into Annette's hands. They were thick, heavy books, and some of them went crashing to the ground. There were too many for her to hold, Annette could see with a sinking heart. There were nearly a dozen of them, weighing what must be altogether around forty pounds. How could she possibly do this?

Annette silently crouched down to collect the books, feeling a spike of pain shoot up her chest as she did. She tried to suppress a cough as she picked up the volumes, but only fell into a more violent fit that caused her to drop the books again.

She heard Enjolras beside her, taking the books and setting them on his desk. She looked up and saw him offer his hand, and she took it as she rose painfully from the floor.

Immediately Enjolras dropped her hand as though he'd received a shock, and Annette tried to squash down her resigned disappointment. She began to pick up the tower of books, leaning back so they would balance, when Enjolras stopped her.

"Don't be stupid, you can't carry those by yourself. You'll end up dropping them on the streets." He grabbed the majority of the books, leaving a few of the lighter ones in Annette's arms. Annette murmured her thanks and they departed from the building.

They were silent for a while as they made their way through the crowded streets. Several times Annette fell behind because she got caught in a group of wide skirted young bourgeois princesses, or a cluster of gamins racing wildly and whooping, tossing pebbles at unsuspecting pigeons. Each time Enjolras stopped, though visibly reluctant, until Annette got her bearings. He walked quickly, and Annette struggled to keep up.

A few minutes later, Enjolras laughed drily to himself. Annette wondered if it was too risky to question this. Since she didn't, a few seconds later, Enjolras explained it for her.

"Of all the things he's done, this is by far the most ridiculous. I'm sure Combeferre was in urgent need of—" he checked the titles—"_The Growth of Gardening_. Why did you come?" He asked bitterly.

Annette tried to hide the fact that she was struggling to breathe as Enjolras ranted angrily about Combeferre's unorthodox matchmaking tactics.

"It's a favor," she said quietly. Enjolras snapped his head toward her.

"For what?"

"Combeferre is helping me." That was all she said. Hopefully that would be enough.

"With?"

_Is it any of your business?_ "Finding my father."

Enjolras fell silent for a long, long while. He clearly regretted ever speaking, and Annette was glad he never uttered another word till they reached the Musain. Before entering, Annette stopped to catch her breath, leaning against the door of the building.

She glanced at Enjolras patiently waiting, the image of him assisting her with carrying the books warmly familiar. The memory of their first meeting stirred in her brain, and she couldn't help but comment on it.

"It seems to me you're always carrying books for me."

"Yes, I suppose you've certainly put me to use as a means of practicality."

"Are you serious?" Annette asked, the trace of a smile showing. "Ever since we first met I have been using you for practical purposes. Did you not help me carry my belongings through the streets that first time?" She shook her head, and stopped herself in embarrassment as she realized she'd fallen into the old habit of teasing with Enjolras.

Yet as she glanced at him as they carried the books inside, she thought he maybe looked slightly less stiff and angry. Perhaps that was a sign of progress.

He set the books down on the table where Combeferre and Grantaire were seated, directly in front of Combeferre and immediately retreated without another word. Annette sank down next to Combeferre and lay her head on her folded arms. She hid her face as hot tears began to spill off of her face as undeniably warm and happy memories recurred to her.

"_You're beautiful."_

_"I think...I love you."_

_"I would gladly die a hundred times so you could live another day."_

_"There's grass in your hair."_

Admittedly the last one caused a flash of inner amusement. Of all the moments they'd shared, that was what stood out in her mind.

Annette felt a hand on her back, and she quickly wiped her face and lifted her head. It was Grantaire who looked back at her with compassionate eyes. She took a deep, shaky breath as she knotted her fingers through her loose hair, and Grantaire soothed her a bit awkwardly as Combeferre mechanically went through the books, sorrow and regret in his face.

"I'm sorry," Annette whispered. "I can't stop falling apart every time something stupid happens."

Grantaire sighed heavily as he dropped his hand. "He's an ass, Annie. An oblivious, selfish, ass."

Annette shook her head. "No, it was I who hurt him. I tried to do the right thing, and now I don't even know what that is anymore."

They were silent, nobody very much in the mood to talk. Combeferre finally asked, "Would you like to hear about your father?"

Annette's face grew hot as she looked at Combeferre. He had done this. He had set her up. With all of his stupid, well meaning plans he had once again caused more pain, more hurt.

"No, I don't," she said bitterly, contradicting her burning curiosities of just a few hours ago. "Stop trying to make things right between me and Enjolras. You're just making everything worse. Stop _meddling_."

She stood and stormed out of the Musain, leaving behind both her friends, who shared an identical expression of worry and regret.

* * *

When Annette was a fair way away from the Musain, she stopped to lean against the brick wall of a bakery. She wanted this to end. She didn't want to keep avoiding Enjolras, to fight with Combeferre, to avoid Courfeyrac, and to pretend she was happy with the arrangement.

Once she would have been angry, a burning, seething ball of flaming rage. She would have fought, she would have made sure she could change things back to the way they used to be. Enjolras had been rude, Combeferre had been unkind, but she had cared too much for far too long. She had been selfish and cowardly. She had been many things, and still was, but angry was no longer one of them. At least for now.

Now she was resigned. A quiet, heavy feeling settled onto her shoulders like a huge bird gripping its talons into its prey. She wanted to escape now. From where? Even she did not know.

For now she wanted to make some things right.

Annette resumed walking, feeling slow and weighed down, her feet dragging with every step.

"Annie! Wait a moment!"

Annette started upon hearing her name, and she turned to see Grantaire sprinting through the evening crowd. When he caught up, Annette continued on, staring straight ahead.

"Where are you going?" Grantaire puffed, his face red. A faint warm feeling of amusement stirred in Annette's mind. She hadn't ever seen him try so hard. She slowed down so he could catch his breath.

"Are you going to report me to Combeferre?" She asked.

Grantaire let out a huge puff of air. "Dearest Annette, surely you know me better?"

Annette smiled at him. "I'm going to see Courfeyrac."

"Ah," Grantaire said, raising his eyebrows knowingly. "Rebellious, aren't we?"

"Well why shouldn't I?" Annette said. "He is my brother. I haven't seen him in more than two weeks after he was shot. How is it fair to make me stay at home?"

Grantaire shrugged and said nothing. He linked her arm through his, and Annette noticed his unsteady gait was not just a result of having run nearly a mile to catch up with her. She had smelled the whisky when he was yards away.

"Well, you aren't coming with me!" Annette exclaimed, impatient and a little uneasy.

"Annie, it'll be dark in less than an hour. You aren't walking alone, and I did not just lose twenty pounds through sweat to be turned away. Besides," he added a little gentler, "there was a reason Combeferre kept you away from him."

"I do not need a chaperone," Annette said icily.

Grantaire sighed. "But I do." He tightened his hold on her for the tiniest fraction of a second, as though reassuring her. But Annette neither needed nor wanted it.

"I want to see him alone, Grantaire."

"I can wait."

Annette shrugged. She did find herself happier now that she was no longer alone, and every now and then she found herself wondering what was taking place behind Grantaire's determinedly bitter eyes. Every time she found herself alone with him, there was always that odd draw about him. There was an unmistakable virtue behind the drunken mask, and sometimes, in those moments alone, she believed she could see right through it.

Knocking on Courfeyrac's door, Annette wondered if he knew the reason for her absence. Did he know? Did he agree? Why were they keeping her from him?

The door opened to reveal Joly, who stared with horror at Grantaire and Annette.

"Good God, this really isn't the greatest time to come by, I—"

"Joly? Who's here?" Courfeyrac's hoarse voice called from behind. Joly sighed.

"Wait a minute," he told Annette. He shut the door. Annette and Grantaire exchanged looks.

"Have you gone to see him at all?" Annette asked.

Grantaire nodded. "Once."

Annette looked away and stared at the door. Something was wrong, and nobody was telling her.

A few minutes later, Joly opened the door again. She hesitated before coming in, so Grantaire pushed her. She shot him a dirty look and stepped in. Joly quickly drew her aside, blocking her view of Courfeyrac.

"Annette, it has not been easy this last week for him," he said, laughing nervously to ease the tension. Annette laid her hand on his arm.

"What happened?" She asked quietly.

Joly looked behind him in hopes Courfeyrac wouldn't hear. "The wound got infected, and he was in a lot of pain. He was running a high fever, and delirious... He wasn't like himself, you understand. He was lonely, I suppose, on the days that I had classes. He asked for an extra dose of laudanum. I shouldn't have, but I gave it to him. He—" Joly passed his hand over his brow.

"_Mon Dieu,_ he almost died. He only just woke up yesterday. He has been out of sorts since you last saw him, so just...be careful."

As Joly stepped aside Annette stood paralyzed in fear. Out of the corner of her eye she could see Grantaire waiting at the door. She turned, and he gave her a slight nod of understanding and encouragement.

She took a breath and made her way through the pristine hall. _Joly must have cleared out Courfeyrac's things from here_, she thought. The last time she'd been here she had tripped several steps in on all sorts of junk.

And she was there, he was there.

Courfeyrac lay upright in bed, supported by a dozen pillows and covered in blankets. His curls hung sad and limp, as though they sensed the mood snd decided they must reflect it. He looked worse, so much worse than from when she'd visited in the hospital. He was much paler, and his eyes were shadowed with deep purple rings. His nose was a violent shade of red, and he looked so overwhelmingly unlike his usual self Annette had to keep her panic down.

But perhaps the worst thing of all was the absence of animation, emotion, and personality. He appeared empty.

When he caught sight of her his expression didn't change. Annette stood with her heart pounding in her chest, knowing she wouldn't be the first to speak.

Courfeyrac stared levelly at her. "Do you want to sit down?" He asked, his voice hoarse.

Silently Annette say on the only available surface; his bed. He moved to the side a few inches and patted the space beside him. Annette lay down without protest. They lay together, staring at the ceiling. Finally, Annette rose on one elbow and looked to her brother.

"What happened, Etienne?"

Courfeyrac stared straight ahead. "I don't know. I don't remember anything. Just odd hallucinations." He shook his head slightly.

"You've had me worried for days," she said. "No one would tell me anything."

Courfeyrac's eyes brightened a tiny bit and he gave her the ghost of a smile. "You don't need to worry about me, Annie, o' ye of little faith. Did you think I'd bite it before we celebrated your birthday?"

Tears welled up in Annette's eyes. She should have been here for him, she should have helped him. She almost couldn't bear to look at him now. But she forced herself to, only to realize he too was struggling to meet her eyes.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, planting a kiss on the top of his head. She tried not to notice the heat that still radiated from him, even after his fever had broken.

Courfeyrac was silent a long while. Then, finally, he turned to look at her with a smile plastered on his face.

Courfeyrac's smile faltered the tiniest bit. "I wish you'd been here. It did get a bit lonely when Joly had classes, and he doesn't quite appreciate my humor like you do. He thinks _Romeo and Juliet _is romantic, and not a story of children who ought to be mocked. Mercutio, on the other hand..."

Annette put an arm around him, smiling a little for his sake. She found herself messing with his sad curls, pulling them back slightly and watching them jump back into shape like springs.

"I should have been here, I know. I suppose I was afraid of seeing you."

Courfeyrac eyed her. "What did you do, Annie? Is there something I don't know?"

Annette shook her head and forced a smile. "Not when you're sick, Etienne."

Courfeyrac huffed. "I'm alright now. Besides, I've been cooped up here long enough. I haven't seen my sister in decades and I want to hear everything I have missed."

Annette hesitated. She was sure he didn't know about her and Enjolras. Even more, she didn't want to give him cause for grief about her.

She shrugged. He saw through it, and after bribery, blackmail, and wheedling, he pried the answer from her.

"No," he said, his voice full of pain.

Annette was silent.

"It's what you told me at the hospital that day, isn't it?"

She nodded.

Courfeyrac took her hand and squeezed it. For once he said nothing more about it.

"I heard you're looking for...Gustave Reneau," Courfeyrac said to change the subject.

Annette nodded.

"Did Combeferre tell you what I told him?"

Annette recalled the page of notes Combeferre withheld until the completion of the "favor."

"No," she said bitterly. "Combeferre and I can no longer work together." She told him about the favor, to which Courfeyrac responded appropriately.

"Sorry, Annie. He's trying to help because he can't help himself, I think. Have you seen him with Eponine recently? The fellow was a bit put out last week when she called him a 'prudish owl.' But I told him, if those aren't the signs of reciprocated love, I don't know what is. I can tell you about your father, though."

A small burst of energy had appeared in Courfeyrac's eyes. Annette smiled a little and ruffled his curls.

"Another day. You look terrible right now, and you need rest. I will come back tomorrow."

"Wait a few minutes," Courfeyrac said, holding her hand tighter. Annette looked down and nodded.

"So," she said, "I've heard Joly can act."

Courfeyrac's face lit up and he gestured wildly to Joly at his desk. Joly stood with a sigh, grumbling all the while as he searched the room, fumbling around for the script.

For the first time in a long while Annette felt relieved of a great weight. For now, at least, the focus was not on her being comforted. She'd missed Courfeyrac terribly, and seeing him smile again was enough for her.

* * *

The skies were grim and grey as Enjolras marched up to the great white mansion on Rue Chatelet. He'd spent the long morning searching for the address, going between houses up and down the street till he found the one that fit Courfeyrac's description. The huge, broken angel statue in one garden had snapped Enjolras out of his sleepy state, and he was startled from then on by anything that made movement.

He stood looking solemn, and without wasting very much time he knocked on the great door of the house.

After a minute or so, the door opened to reveal a middle aged, matronly woman with a cheerful air.

"How can I help you, Monsieur?"

"I am here to see Monsieur de Courfeyrac," Enjolras said, his heart ricocheting wildly in his chest. The housekeeper smiled with tight lips and ushered him in, taking his coat as he entered. Enjolras looked around at Annette and Courfeyrac's old home; in it he saw nothing to remind him of his friends. Everything was polished and perfectly in place and calculated to fit the theme of the wallpaper, floors, and flowers. Nothing was out of place, not a speck of dust could be found floating between curtains or clinging to the door frames.

Everything was quiet and orderly.

So unlike them.

A large portrait caught Enjolras' eye. It was not the subject matter itself; the woman in the painting was striking enough in her looks. Enjolras recognized in her face Courfeyrac's energy and warmth, and all of Annette's flirtatiousness and fire.

Despite his brain having been determined to stow away the information permanently, Enjolras recalled Annette's heartbreaking words but a couple of weeks ago.

Her mother died young, Enjolras thought. His eyes suddenly took in the portrait differently. He could see she must have already fallen ill when it was made.

Her skin was slightly too pale, the eyes, though determined and fierce, seemed grim. She had a thinness usually not common among rich wives with children. The small smile, which could be mistaken for quiet and serene, looked forced.

Enjolras swallowed hard, and forced himself to remain upright. Determination solidified his resolve. When the maid returned with Monsieur de Courfeyrac on her heels, Enjolras diplomatically shook his hand and inclined his head toward the sitting room, taking charge of the meeting.

"My name is Gabriel Enjolras, and I have matters regarding your daughter I need to discuss with you."

Monsieur de Courfeyrac shook his head. "I refuse to speak of her. She has disgraced me, _abandoned_ me. Go from my house, Monsieur."

Enjolras strode to the sitting room and sat on the nearest chair. He looked expectantly at Monsieur de Courfeyrac, daring him to refuse him again.

Enjolras only knew one thing, and that was he was not going anywhere until he had gotten what he wanted from this man. Already he could see what Annette had found unbearable about him. Those hawklike eyes watched him with disapproval that somehow unsettled Enjolras and stirred the desire to make a good impression on this man.

Monsieur de Courfeyrac sat down heavily across from Enjolras, his hands resting on his knees. His steely glare bore into Enjolras.

"Well? I will give you two minutes before I call the gendarmes to remove you from my home."

"I do not think you will," Enjolras replied. "I am sure my father, Gerard Enjolras, would be displeased."

He watched with satisfaction as Monsieur de Courfeyrac's eyes narrowed in recognition upon hearing the name of one of the most wealthy men in Paris.

"Continue."

"Tell me everything you know and more about Gustave Reneau."

Monsieur de Courfeyrac froze. "So I see Annette's been dragging my name through the mud, has she? Telling you about this perfect father who exists elsewhere, while she was forced to live with this old man?"

"Annette has spoken of you in no other way than respect," Enjolras said coolly. "Tell me about Reneau, Monsieur, or I will make sure of it you never see your daughter again."

Monsieur de Courfeyrac's glare faltered ever so slightly, and he leaned forward in his seat. "You're infatuated with her, aren't you? Did she catch you on her hook, and now she's dragging you along in her foolish game? Don't worry, my boy, you're not the first to fall for her tricks."

Flames burned in Enjolras' mind, and he shot the man an icy glare.

"Talking about your own daughter like this does nothing for your credit. Again, and for the last time, who is Gustave Reneau?"

Monsieur de Courfeyrac fell silent. He stood wearily and retreated upstairs only to return again a few minutes later. He shoved a leather bound diary, some worn pictures, and loose sheaths of paper into Enjolras' arms.

"Everything about the old bastard is there," he said bitterly. His eye suddenly caught sight of a tiny portrait of a baby girl and his face softened.

"Tell Annette…if she only came back I would forgive her." His voice was barely above a whisper, but Enjolras detected the sincerity of them. He chose not to respond, instead giving Monsieur de Courfeyrac a curt nod as he collected his coat and exited by the door.

Outside, Enjolras' stomach churned as he stared at the items in his hands. Still, after all of the pain and trouble, it didn't feel right. Whoever he found at the end of the search couldn't be who Annette wanted.

But he had to do it, for Annette. Because still, she would always be everything to him. Perhaps if Enjolras succeeded, she could look at him again without the guarded caution and hurt that she had when he'd last seen her. Perhaps she would come to forgive him, and maybe she could finally have everything.

—

Later that day, Enjolras arrived at the meeting house of the Daughters of the Republic.

The door opened, revealing a bright eyed and smiling blonde beauty.

"Ah, back again, Gabe? Had to come back for more, didn't you?" She flirted and teased him lightly, and, despite her annoying use of his first name, Enjolras always found himself less tense around her. Something about her manner was familiar. When Enjolras had started coming regularly to meetings, she'd made it a point to be close to him always, no matter how hard Enjolras tried to resist.

"Angeline," Enjolras said, dipping his head in greeting.

Enjolras entered to find the large ballroom already filled with the members. Since he'd first attended a meeting, nearly four years ago, he'd always had a lingering interest in the group of women. And when Annette grew too ill to continue, he'd taken her place in secret. He had a feeling she would be less than pleased about it, so he only ever mentioned it to Combeferre. When Eponine saw him, he'd thought she would tell Annette. Instead, her reaction was vastly different than he'd expected.

She'd laughed for several minutes uncontrollably, tears streaming down her face at the sight of Enjolras in a crowd of women.

"Does this mean I can stop coming here?" Eponine asked with relief when she'd finished. "Annie's always on me to go and keep her up to date with what's going on. Now you can just tell me, and we'll just pretend I still go."

Enjolras had nodded his agreement, and thus it went for the next couple of years.

When he'd joined, around thirty people had been there before him. Eponine had told him how more and more members left when Annette no longer showed up. Now there were nearly a hundred, thanks to Enjolras' success with recruiting more women.

Now Angeline linked her arm through Enjolras' unexpectedly and pulled him along. Enjolras felt an ache in his heart but followed Angeline. In the ballroom, he removed his arm as politely as he possibly could and cleared his throat as he faced the dozens of women.

"I will only be here shortly today—" a collective sigh could be heard among the young ladies—"so I will make this brief. With the cholera outbreak, the conditions of the poor are only getting worse. Products are more expensive, and the cost of surviving has become inexplicably high. The Canut revolt in '31 seemed like it would succeed, but proved not to. With our growing numbers, I believe we may actually have a chance to succeed when the time comes. We only need a catalyst—" his brain whirled with excitement. Yes, he could feel it draw near.

"—something to drive more people into joining us, so they can see that the only ones who can help them are themselves."

Murmurs spread throughout the huge room, and Enjolras felt the gazes of dozens of pairs of eyes upon him. It was assuring to feel that these people were listening to him.

"So what?" A bold young voice piped up. Enjolras looked to see Angeline with her hands on her lips, a saucy smile on her face. "We are supposed to just sit and be idle again for God knows how long till an opportunity comes?"

Enjolras returned the steady stare.

"No. We have done enough waiting. It is time to create an opportunity."

Angeline narrowed her eyes, her confidence wavering.

"How?"

"We have been silent. We have been collecting people slowly, one by one. But still we need more. So," he continued, gesturing to a huge stack of papers he'd set set aside a while ago, "distribute these to anyone who you think is dissatisfied with the way our country is being run. Be careful to whom you give these to, for to be caught could mean imprisonment."

He looked out across the sea of trusting female faces, missing one that wasn't there. He imagined for a moment, Annette standing where he was and giving speeches. He nearly smiled in remembrance of her take-charge attitude and how she'd ordered him and the Amis around during meetings.

Enjolras felt a hand on his arm, and looked up to see Angeline standing beside him. The room was waiting expectantly for him to continue.

"Are you alright?" Angeline murmured softly. "You seem…sad."

Enjolras nodded and pulled away, unwilling to come back to the present.

"That's all," he told the others, and left.

Angeline followed him outside.

"Wait, Gabie!" She called in a sing-song voice. Enjolras kept walking.

Angeline caught up to him and shoved him lightly. "Come on, you're not getting away from me so easily," she laughed.

Enjolras shot her a glare which she returned with another smile. He shook his head in disbelief at her resolve.

"Do not call me that."

"Oh, you know you like it." Angeline's face was dangerously close, and Enjolras could feel her warm breath on his neck. He jerked away.

"What do you want?" He asked tiredly.

Angeline pouted. "To discuss the meeting with you, Gabe."

Enjolras shook his head. "I do not have time for this. Go to Jeanne." He quickened his pace, leaving her standing on the streets with the sourest scowl ever recorded by a passerby in all the history of France.

At his apartment, Enjolras went straight to his room, ignoring Combeferre in the common room. Still he could not forgive him for interfering with him and Annette. Such things were none of his business.

He sat at his desk, massaging his head from a long existing headache, and spread the papers Monsieur de Courfeyrac had given him in front of him.

They were in a man's hand, the writing, and there were pages of the crammed writing. Enjolras sighed and flipped through the leather diary, stopping as an old picture the size of a small book fell out.

It was a sketch of Annette, grown up but younger, when she must have been around eighteen years old. Her mass of dark curls spiraled freely down her back, and she wore a stained blue low-necked dress. Enjolras furrowed his brow at the picture. Why would Monsieur de Courfeyrac ever want Annette painted like this? Certainly it did not properly reflect the propriety that the man was determined to uphold.

Annette's face in the picture was miserable. Her eyes were rimmed with red and her fists were clenched in her skirts. Loss was what came to Enjolras' mind as he looked. Loss and anger.

He set the picture aside, unnerved by the portrait. He continued flipping through the diary, which he understood as Annette's mother's.

_Gustave took me to the fair today, and we..._

_I do hope Edouard does not discover my secret..._

_It is too late. Our plans for the baby have been utterly ruined. Edouard has discovered my child, who's not yet due for three months! Dear God, he knows it is not his!_

_Annie will live with Gustave. Edouard cannot stand to look at her, the little beauty. He drank too much and threw a glass at her, and only Marie saved her in time._

_Annie is the most darling little girl, and calls Gustave 'Papa!' It saddens me that I see her only a few chance times a month; I find comfort that Gustave cares so well for her._

_Little Annie is four today! How I wish she and Etienne could play together. It is not possible, though, because Etienne is always running to Edouard to tell him our secrets._

_I cannot go on. How can Edouard expect me to give up my child in return for Gustave? Mon Dieu, I fear for my life._

_Gustave left for Nice today for good. His servant brought Annie to me and left without a word. Oh, the poor girl cried so!_

_Annie is so sad and quiet. I only hope Etienne can lift her spirits._

_Annie has forgotten Gustave, I think, though she still cries in her sleep sometimes._

_It is the third time I have had such a fever. The doctor says one more and I may not live to see Annie's birthday..._

Enjolras couldn't read on. His eyes blurred with tears as he read Madame de Courfeyrac's accounts. He nearly choked on the tears stuck in his throat.

His perspective on Annette's family had completely turned around. He suddenly felt keenly Annette's desire to remember a kinder, gentler father, after being left with one who was bitter after her mother's death. His heart cried for a woman he had never met, but felt he knew intimately from reading her diary.

Suddenly Enjolras felt sick. It wasn't his right to read the diary; it was Annette's most of all. Annette needed to know. This was what she had been longing for for years, had kept secret from him. And when she's finally told him, put her trust in him, he'd refused to help her.

With unsteady hands Enjolras gathered up all of the papers and the diary in a stack and placed them in a manila folder in his book satchel.

He shouted to Combeferre in his rush, and took off running through the still Paris night.

* * *

Annette sat in front of the large mirror Eponine had insisted they keep from salvaging some junk from a recent fire. The sides were blackened with soot, and the upper portion was cracked, but normally that made no difference to Annette. On any other day she barely noticed it and chose to ignore her reflection.

Tonight was different.

She'd looked once, for the first time in a long while, and had been truly horrified. Her cheeks were gaunt and almost hollow, the rings under her eyes were black, and her eyes didn't seem to shine like they'd used to. Annette didn't understand how she could have changed so much; did she feel very different?

Yes.

She'd never been too vain, but she could have cried at her appearance because of how familiar it was to her mother's, weeks before her death.

Annette swallowed and looked away. These past few weeks she had felt like she had been waiting for something. She had hardly gotten out of the house except to visit Courfeyrac, and even those visits were limited. She slept so much of the day away, and it frightened her. The night chills had worsened, and she'd caught a fever that had lasted a day. Eponine had been in a panic and went to call for Combeferre, until Annette, determined not to see him again, made her send him back and fetch a doctor.

Why did it have to take so long? Annette thought in anguish. It had been four years; how long could one suffer slowly to death like this, wasting away?

The thought flitted across her mind that she could end it all now, and the pain would be gone. She wouldn't have to wait out her stay anymore, looking over her shoulder everyday to see if death had yet caught up to her.

But she couldn't. Not yet, not knowing the rest of the secrets her family had kept so well from her.

Annette slowly stood and crossed the room to reach her bed. Underneath the bed she pulled out a tiny wooden box inscribed with the letter _A_. Opening it, she removed the silver bracelet her mother had given her so many years ago.

Annette fingered it for comfort, searching for the tiny warmth it used to provide, and felt nothing. She slipped it on regardless, fumbling with the clasp, if only to have the familiar token near again.

Now that Courfeyrac was at last almost well Annette had been able to turn her worry to other things, other people.

Other people meaning Enjolras.

Would he always resent her? Would she die knowing he hadn't forgiven her? The thought brought chills running down her spine, and Annette found herself regretting for the millionth time her decision to walk away. At the time it had been right, hadn't it? It had been the selfless path to take, to atone for all the mistakes made along the way. Only Enjolras hadn't realized it yet.

Annette picked up the notes Courfeyrac had given her concerning what little he knew about Gustav Reneau. Their father had been most reluctant to give away anything to help Annette, especially from his favorite child.

Multiple times Eponine had handed Annette Combeferre's thick folder of notes and information, but with a willpower even Annette herself could not explain, she refused them. She knew she should take them to accelerate her search. She didn't have time to act prideful.

Yet pride was the only thing left to her, however much of it she had left.

The notes from Courfeyrac were all dates and little trifles, collected from their mother's diary, Courfeyrac had explained. There were a couple of letters as well, addressed from Gustav to Juliette, Annette's mother. Annette had already poured over these, tracing each curve of the looping and writing in those mild and affectionate words.

_January 7th, 1808: Juliette, when you receive this I shall already be in Paris. Duty or not, you cannot imagine I would leave you with my child with Edouard. We will go…_

_February 17th, 1806: Since I laid eyes on you I cannot stop the recurring dreams of your bright eyes and sharp wit. Forget the old man you have at home, dearest, and run away with me! Bring the child and—_

It was the last one that had saddened Annette most of all. Written just before her mother's death, it had shaken her to her core upon realizing the full extent of her father's meaning.

_March 24th, 1822: Juliette, this will be my last correspondence. You have made it clear you must be loyal to a man who loathes our daughter who has forgotten me. I only say to you this, mon amour; cherish your life. It has had its sweet moments, and it pains me to see you hurt yourself so. Think of your children, and how they need you. Try to love yourself as I have loved you all these years, despite your beliefs. I will be here._

Annette didn't look at the papers in her hands. She knew what they said; she had memorized every line. Every moment was an eternal struggle not to go to Combeferre and beg the information from him. How she did not was a mystery to her.

But there was no denying she wanted so much more than this. She wanted, no, needed to know everything. Her mother's life and the secrets shrouding her father were like a recurring dream that Annette could never quite seem to remember in the morning. She wanted so desperately to remember that dream.

Her biggest fear was that she would get what she wanted. What then? What if Gustav Reneau was not the man in the letters, in Annette's mind? What did she even know of the man? What if he did turn out to be as Enjolras had said, a disappointment to her?

A knock sounded at the door, startling Annette from her reverie. She stared at the wall uncomprehending for a moment, then rose and opened the door.

Enjolras stood here, his hair eyes wild and cheeks red from exercise. His eyes had that special glow that told her he had just learned something valuable or emerged victorious in some struggle.

Seeing him appear at her door after so long was too much for Annette. Indeed, he seemed to have gained even more of that unearthly beauty which resulted in Grantaire's unceasing comparisons to the Greek gods. Every familiar expression of that face had been cherished and remembered, and it was staggering to see him alive, so close to her again. As if she could kiss him again and it would be alright. As though she could take his hand and run.

Annette closed the door and locked it, stepping away from the door and releasing her hand from the knob quickly as though she had been burned. Silence reigned for a long while, and she thought he had gone, until she heard Enjolras say in a rushed voice,

"Annette, please. Will you let me come in? I promise I am only here to give you something."

Pain.

Annette swallowed, taking deep breaths to compose herself, then, hyperventilating, she tripped over a couple of books lying on the floor and landed with a crash.

"Annette?" Enjolras' voice called out in alarm.

Utterly mortified and grateful there was a door blocking his view, Annette winced, stifling the pain of her bruised side and dignity.

"Give me a minute," she rasped. She slowly stood, staring at the ground, dizzy with his arrival and her graceless fall. She stood, inches away from the door, and told herself what she'd always said before.

You are strong. You will get through this, and you can be normal. Please be normal, she prayed desperately as a last resort and opened the door.

She didn't look at Enjolras; she closely watched the space around him instead. Looking directly at him would be like looking at the sun, and she didn't believe she could keep herself from burning.

"Is everything alright? I heard a—"

"It's fine," Annette said sharply, staring intensely at the space above his head.

Enjolras was silent and began to awkwardly pace the little room. Unease and wariness pricked uncomfortably along Annette's body, and she shifted her weight from side to side, waiting for him to say something.

"Do you want to go to the Musain?" Enjolras asked, clearly desperate to get out of the tiny and confined room, alone with Annette.

"What do you want, Enjolras?" Annette asked tiredly, allowing herself to meet his eyes for the first time.

Enjolras hesitated and gestured to his satchel hanging at his side.

"I spoke to Monsieur de Courfeyrac, and he gave me everything he had concerning your father—your real father."

Annette's voice caught in her throat, and she coughed a little to clear it. "Why—why did you do this?"

It was now Enjolras who did not meet her gaze.

"I was wrong to say I would not help you in something of such importance to you. I read a small portion of your mother's diary—" he looked at her apologetically—"and it seems you may have been right. Gustav Reneau may very well have been the honorable and kind father you have been hoping for all these years."

Annette stared at him in shock. How had he gotten anything from her father? Moreover, what had changed his mind?

She couldn't help but rake her gaze over to the worn leather satchel, so ordinary on the outside but containing so many answers to the twisted and mysterious secrets of her family so long hidden from her. If pride had stopped her from accepting Combeferre's help, it was powerless to deny the aid of the satchel—and Enjolras.

"Alright, then. To the Musain," she said.

Enjolras' shoulders sagged in relief at her words. Annette, however, knew she didn't want to be alone with him again. She couldn't.

"On one condition."

—

Grantaire was working in the makeshift studio of his tiny apartment on Rue de Desirades. Frustrated over a stubborn bit of charcoal, he picked up the bottle next to him and gulped down another portion, feeling his vision begin to blur. He stared back at the canvas spread out in front of him in disgust, the lines swirling and coming to life as they always did when he had had just enough wine. He looked sullenly between the inadequate sketch and Mimi, his model and muse, and threw the sketch aside. Mimi sighed wistfully seeing the fourth draft hit the rubbish pile along with the others.

When the door burst open Mimi squealed with indignation, gathering her clothes around her naked body. Grantaire hardly paid her any mind seeing Annette appear in disarray.

"Help me," Annette said breathlessly, her face showing extreme distress. Grantaire rose, knocking aside previous paintbrushes and tubes of paint as he did so. The easel went crashing down along with his sketch, but he paid no attention to it. Mimi's face was red, and Grantaire gestured to the four francs laid out for her on the table, and she saw herself out.

"What is it?" He asked Annette anxiously, observing her carefully. No, she didn't seem hurt. But her breaths came out as wheezes, and Grantaire recognized in her many similar episodes of anxiety of his own.

He led her to sit down on the one pitifully bare stool he had in the room, wondering just what it was that had shaken her so. Certainly she had grown more reclusive as of late, and despite their frequent gatherings to research Reneau, she hardly spoke very much at all anymore. Grantaire suspected that what had been bottled up inside for so long might be about to come out.

Annette opened her mouth, but no sound came out.

"Breathe, Annie," Grantaire murmured. What had her so upset? The last time he had seen anything close to this was—

"Enjolras came to my home," Annette said. "He said he wants to help me find my father, and he wants to talk in the Musain."

"About time," Grantaire said, avoiding her eyes as he patted her shoulder.

"Will you come?" Annette asked, imploring him with her sharp and clear eyes.

Grantaire let out a dry laugh. How could Enjolras have skewered his relationship with Annette so far that she could not bring herself to be alone with him anymore? A confused whirlpool of anger and admiration swirled in his heart, knowing these people he loved so differently clashed so dangerously. Yet his heart ached as he saw for the hundredth time Annette's tired eyes and pale skin.

"Of course, cherie. Never fear, I have been trained in the ancient practice of getting on Enjolras' nerves. Come on." He pulled her up, and as they left Grantaire found himself wondering why it was him Annette had come to.

The thought at once pleased and disappointed him.

—

Annette stared at the pictures Enjolras had set before her, trying to quell her rising emotions. There was that miniature of her mother Courfeyrac had given her after the funeral. She hadn't seen it in years, and never knew it had been taken. There was that sketch of her from years ago when she was seven, a baby picture, and—

"When is this from?" Grantaire asked, looking at the sketch of her in the blue dress with interest. Annette could see Enjolras had been thinking the same thing, but hadn't been brave enough to ask.

Annette cringed in embarrassment at the picture that had cemented such a terrible night. Failing her friends and costing them their lives, widening the gap between her and her—not her—father. She'd cried so many nights after that one, and had spent the last six years trying to forget it.

"I was eighteen," she said, staring at her miserable face on paper. "It was that night I—failed. The night I failed to save my friends from death, after being caught with Blaise by my father. He was so angry—he called for an artist in the middle of the night just so he could have my picture made. He wanted to have it always as some sort of reminder to me, I do not know. He would bring it out when we disagreed on something, which was always."

She didn't bother veiling the truth. He'd asked, she'd answered.

Grantaire stared at her in shock as Enjolras shook his head in disgust.

"Did he know?" Grantaire asked.

Annette shook her head. "Of course not. I could never tell him. I believe he would find that even worse, his daughter lying to him all those years."

They all sat in silence as Annette looked down and flipped through her mother's diary again. She reached the last entry and felt her throat squeeze tightly. It was her last day, the day of her death. The writing was sloppy and uneven, written by an unsteady hand. The page was stained with tears.

_June 25, 1823: Please God, let it end. Let me be with Gustave, for if he is not with me he must be dead as well. Please, please. Every breath hurts, and Edouard has a murderous look about him. He spoke of Gustav once, but fell silent. He is hiding something from me. Poor Annie is trying to be brave for Etienne and he her, but I can hear them both crying outside. Let me die now so I need not hear it anymore, however selfish that may be. I want nothing but death, nothing—_

The entry ended there.

Annette rose abruptly and crossed to the other side of the room, her hand over her mouth as the tears fell. Her mother had never revealed any such suffering to her or to Courfeyrac, always putting on a smile for them till the very end. Reading her mother's secret thoughts felt like a cruel trick of nature.

Annette quickly wiped at her face and turned back to Grantaire and Enjolras, waiting.

"Thank you," she told Enjolras quietly. "It's nice to have something of my mother's again. Though I do not think any of this will help me find my father."

Enjolras shook his head wildly and stood, rummaging through the papers on the table. "No, no. There's a letter somewhere here, from him, dated just last two or three years ago. It must have a return address."

Annette and Grantaire joined him, sifting through the papers with them. They went through everything again, but came up empty handed.

"When did you see it?" Annette asked, trying to keep herself calm. She was close, so close.

"_Mon Dieu_, I know I had it in the streets at least. It has to be here somewhere, Annette." He cursed silently under his breath.

Annette stared at him in anger. He was lying, he must be. He was still angry with her and this was how he was getting his revenge.

"So it just disappeared, did it?"

"I know I had it!" Enjolras returned.

"I do not doubt it," Annette said coolly.

"What does that mean?"

Annette took a step forward and said accusingly, "You still are angry, then, are you? You're keeping this from me because you still haven't forgiven me?"

Grantaire watched Enjolras, who threw his hands up in the air in frustration.

"Why would I go through all of this trouble to help you if I had bad intentions?"

"Well, maybe your intentions were not so kind!" Annette fired. The space around them seemed to grow hot, and the air buzzed with intensity.

Enjolras looked like he was about to make some sort of comeback, but his hands fell to his side in defeat and he sighed.

Grantaire cleared his throat from the table, his expression void of the amusement he used to show during these infamous quarrels.

"I will let the two of you talk. It seems you did not need me after all." He hesitated. "I'll wait so I can walk you back home." He gave Annette a pointed look and she wanted to call him back, but he nearly ran out the door.

Annette looked back at Enjolras and silently went back to sit down. She held her head in her hands, angry with herself and knowing she was wrong. Enjolras was helping her this time; she knew it. He did not have a permanent vendetta against her so strong he would destroy her chances of meeting her father. She couldn't keep fighting him on every little thing that came between them. She didn't want to spend her last moments with him always angry.

She collected the papers on the table together slowly, stacking them neatly and gathering them in her arms as she stood again.

Enjolras opened his mouth to speak, but Annette interrupted him.

"I'm sorry. I know you mean no harm, and I am grateful for your help. It could not have been easy, going to see my...father."

Enjolras looked relieved. "Of course, Annette. All I want is for you to be happy, in every way possible." His words were said in earnest, and Annette felt an overwhelming pang of sadness. Hope, too, flared within her. Did that mean he still loved her?

Annette nodded, staring down at the floor. She massaged the bridge of her nose to relieve some of the tension she was feeling. She took a deep breath, and looked to Enjolras again.

"Thank you. For everything. I'm just—exhausted. I am going home now."

"Annette," Enjolras began, his voice pained. He ran his hand through his his hair absentmindedly, his gaze meeting hers and flitting away again. "I do not want us to be angry with each other anymore."

Annette nodded, because that was what she should do, what he expected her to do. She reached out her hand for him to shake diplomatically.

"Perhaps we may try to be friends again, if it sounds agreeable to you, Enjolras," she said quietly, slowly meeting his eyes. "Or, at the very least, allies."

Enjolras stared at her hand a moment, then shook it, his warm hand lingering. Annette pulled away and nodded goodbye before leaving.

How had love become so twisted?

* * *

A few days later, Annette and Courfeyrac were going over their mother's belongings together in her apartment. Courfeyrac was silent through reading the diary, but his eyes glowed mischievously when he saw the portraits of Annette.

"I'd forgotten what a chubby child you were," he said, laughing at the rolls of fat on little two year-old Annette.

"Some of us haven't grown out of the baby fat, have we?" Annette teased, prodding Courfeyrac.

Courfeyrac huffed and smacked her arm lightheartedly, and puffed out his chest. "I am pure sinew. I am built like the great Hercules."

Annette laughed. She felt warmly comfortable again, and thought, _if only it could always be like this with everybody._ A flash of sudden discomfort went through her brain remembering the ongoing silence between her and Combeferre and the awkwardness with Enjolras.

Courfeyrac absently stared at the picture until his eyes lit up and he looked over at Annette with an inspired grin.

"We never celebrated your birthday this year, did we?"

Annette responded drily, "I think we were a little preoccupied with not getting killed. A feat you barely managed, by the way." She made a gesture to Courfeyrac's shoulder, which he waved off.

"Come, now! After all of this dreary business we need something to celebrate! What better than your birthday? There will be dancing and singing and cake...?" He wiggled his eyebrows at the last suggestion.

Annette was unsure. "I don't think so, Etienne. After everything that's happened I am not so sure I feel like celebrating. In fact, I am amazed how you do."

"Ah, but that is exactly why you need to! We need some happy days to make up for the bad ones!" Seeing Annette's silence, Courfeyrac took and squeezed her hand.

"Look, you do not need to agree with anything you do not want to. But think about it this way: you're alone too often and when you're with company, it's to research your father. Do you not think after everything you have done, you deserve a night of fun? Besides," he added, "You needn't worry about a thing. Joly and Jehan and I can get things ready. We'll have a proper ballroom and everything."

Seeing Courfeyrac's earnest and hopeful eyes, Annette found herself agreeing with his contagious excitement.

"Only...do not make it too large an affair, alright?" Annette said. Knowing how extravagant Courfeyrac could be, he would invite all of Paris.

Courfeyrac scoffed. "It will be a very intimate party, I assure you."

The smile he gave her as he departed did nothing to ease her nerves.

—

As Courfeyrac, Joly, and Jehan began the preparations for the party, Enjolras gathered up the courage to decide to visit Annette.

With a purpose, of course. He'd discovered Combeferre had lent a book long ago which she hadn't returned. Combeferre was put out by the fact that he couldn't get it back because Annette wouldn't see him. Fortunately, Enjolras, being the good friend he was, was willing to make the sacrifice.

The truth was, he'd been overwhelmed with the desire to see Annette and somehow melt the coldness of their last meeting. He couldn't bear the thought of forever being estranged from the girl he loved more than almost anything in the world. And worse yet, he knew she didn't have forever.

Just seeing her face for now would be enough, he reasoned. Maybe, if she were not opposed to it, he could help her again with Gustav Reneau. Regrettably, though he'd ransacked his and Combeferre's rooms, despite not bringing anything there, and searching the meeting place of the Daughters of the Republic, still he could not find that letter he'd promised Annette. The thought always nagged him about how he'd lost such an important document. It might be that one slip of paper only that separated Annette from her father.

At Annette's apartment Enjolras knocked eagerly, and could not conceal his disappointment on seeing Eponine open the door instead.

Eponine saw this. "Ah, yes, and how lovely to see you." She raised her eyebrows. "Can I help you?"

Enjolras cleared his throat awkwardly, trying to subtly look past her to see where Annette was.

"I...came to retrieve one of Combeferre's books he lent to Annette," Enjolras said.

He didn't notice the wry smile Eponine wore.

"Annette isn't here," she told him bluntly. Enjolras' heart fell with a sad flop in his chest. Eponine must have noticed his disappointment, because she opened the door a little wider and invited him in.

"I am only here for the book," Enjolras remembered to say as he stepped in the room.

Eponine made a strange little laugh and muttered, "Sure you are, Prince Charming."

Eponine shook her head as she gave him Combeferre's book (a biography of some poet or other).

"Why he didn't ask me to bring it is beyond me. Well, you needed a reason to come here, I suppose."

Enjolras lingered in the room, knowing Eponine expected him to leave. He looked around at the interior of the apartment as if he hadn't seen it dozens of times before. Eponine watched him impatiently.

"Sit down," she ordered. Enjolras, surprised, and unused to following orders, found himself complying.

Eponine silently observed him for a brief moment before speaking. "You are absolutely ridiculous right now, Enjolras, and it is taking all of my compassion and willpower not to mock you at the moment."

"Thank you," Enjolras replied sarcastically. "May I ask—"

"You may not." Eponine was calm and cool, thought laughter and mirth danced like fire behind her eyes. "You act like such a lovey-dovey fool it makes me ill. _You_, of all people, after years of deriding your friends for doing that same thing. So I beg of you, stop."

Enjolras felt himself grow hot with indignation. He did not act like Courfeyrac and Joly, always ranting about their pretty mistresses and pining away for women they could never have. He was not like them.

Eponine grew serious. "Alright, we both know why you came. But Monsieur le Prince," she said, the mocking words somehow very grave, "you should stay away from Annette. She told you no for a reason. It may be a stupid decision on her part, but it was hers and you should respect that."

"I can get her back, Eponine!" Eponine said, suddenly losing control of his words. Why was he arguing with Eponine over Annette? This must have been the longest conversation they had ever had in the few years he'd known her.

Eponine narrowed her eyes. "And you think that is the best thing for her, do you? That if you are together everything else will be good? You are the one who's hurt her time and time again. She feels guilty about the decision she made with you, and even though she misses you she thinks she's doing the right thing! If you are wallowing in your own pity, take it somewhere else." Her words were fueled with anger, and Enjolras had the sense that she was not pleased with him.

"I take it you are happy with Annette's decision," Enjolras said with not a bit of bitterness.

Eponine sighed and relaxed a little, taking pity on him. "You made her happy before, Enjolras. I saw it, everyone saw it. Then Blaise ruined everything for her, and she felt guilty about Courfeyrac. She must have thought she had to make a sacrifice to atone for it or something like that. But you do realize she's sick, don't you? Every little heartbreak hurts her more than it should." She hesitated a moment, as though unsure whether she should disclose certain information.

But it appeared she won the brief conflict. "Annette hasn't been well," she said slowly.

Enjolras shook his head in frustration. "Obviously I know—"

"Shes getting worse," Eponine interrupted. "She's dreamt of dying, and talks in her sleep about ending it herself," Eponine said, her voice thick with emotion. "How would you feel if you were living with a clock telling you when you'd die? And she doesn't let me help with anything."

Enjolras stared at Eponine in shock. "Does anybody else know?" He managed to choke out.

Eponine shook her head. "Only Auguste, the one person she refuses to see."

Enjolras stood and began to pace. If Annette was having self-destructive thoughts she needed to be saved. She needed their help.

As though she'd read his mind, Eponine spoke. "You need to get Auguste to talk to her," she said. "He's good at that sort of thing, and I do not know what to do."

"He won't come unless Annette wants to see him," Enjolras said doubtfully. "Have you asked him?"

"Yes!" Eponine cried in frustration. "He even tried to come, but Annette is so stubborn." Her face softened for a moment. "You, maybe she will listen to you. Talk to her at the party tomorrow."

Enjolras sighed internally. He had not counted on going at all, even if Annette would be there. He doubted he could endure Courfeyrac's friends and the dancing.

Taking his silence for agreement, Eponine stood and gestured unsubtly to the door. Before leaving, Enjolras turned to Eponine.

"She is lucky to have you as a friend, Eponine."

Eponine shook her head with a tiny smile and shut the door.

Now Enjolras needed to find something to wear to this party.

—

When Annette returned from the market she made a beeline for her bed, flopping down tiredly on her back.

"Well, it was nice of Courfeyrac to have this party tomorrow, but we really don't have anything to wear. It has been so long since I've gone to one of these, I had forgotten how expensive they are."

Eponine sat on the armchair with her legs curled up under her. She said nothing, and Annette took her silence for agreement.

"If I had no pride I might go back to the old house to get something for us, but obviously that is out of the question. What do you think we should do?"

Eponine still said nothing, but this time she rose and went into her room. She returned carrying two large white rectangular boxes in her arms, tied up with a thick gold lacy ribbon.

Eponine set them down next to Annette, who slowly sat up.

"These were at the door, addressed to us. There's no name saying who it's from. Did Courfeyrac...?"

Annette stared at the boxes in wonder. "I don't know. He would have told me—or perhaps not." She itched to see what was inside. "Have you opened them yet?"

Eponine shook her head, her eyes wide. "Look."

Annette slowly undid the ribbon and let it fall to the floor, its ends curling gently, discarded. Lifting the cover from the first box, the contents nearly took her breath away, which, as we know, would not have boded well for her.

She pulled out a silk gown the color of cherry blossoms with a darker rose undertone in the layers of the skirts. It was made to fall gently off of the shoulders, and the sleeves were slightly puffy and sheer and fell to the elbows. The neckline and waist were adorned with tiny pink and red roses, while a thin ribbon of lace traced the waistline. It must have been expensive, Annette found herself thinking in awe as she traced the flowery patterns of the skirt.

Eponine touched the fabric as though she were afraid of ruining it. "It's like the stuff princesses wear," she said.

Annette looked in the box, where there was a small piece of paper folded into the corner. Picking it up and opening it, she saw the words, written in elegant cursive, _For Eponine._

A silent curse escaped Eponine's lips as she took in the meaning of the note.

"For me?" She exclaimed. "Really, who's it from? Who would spend all that money for us?"

Annette looked at the dress uncomfortably, wondering the same thing. It couldn't possibly be the Amis, could it? They wouldn't be so extravagant for a little party?

With Eponine's urging, she opened the second box.

In it lay a silk dress of a familiar breathtaking summer sky blue. The sleeves were a gauzy white, short and puffy, made of the same sheer material as Eponine's, and fell off the shoulders with an elegant curve. The neckline was also trimmed with the same lace as the other and was studded with pearls, and the embroidered patterns on the skirt gave the appearance of clouds. Pearls were sewn into the patterns and shone in the light reflecting from the sun. It seemed vast and free, and Annette thought it looked like a scene of dreams.

Yet there was something about the color, or the pattern, that was familiar. Whether it were from a memory or a dream, Annette couldn't tell. She found an identical note in the box, with _For Annette_ written inside.

"Who's it from?" She asked aloud, a bit worried. Someone had spent a great sum on their gowns, and the fact that she didn't know who it was bothered her. Really, it was far too much, even for a ballgown. It was like something she would have worn years ago, when parties and suitors and things still mattered. It was from another world, another life, that she had escaped. Now it seemed as though someone were trying to pull her back in.

Eponine shrugged. "Does it matter? Look at these!" She pulled out two pairs of lacy white gloves from the boxes, one adorned with a little rose and the other a cluster of pearls. Annette shook her head in disbelief, already counting how much each individual item must have cost.

_One of these could feed a family for weeks_, she thought guiltily as she looked at the gowns. But she didn't say it out loud. Eponine was overjoyed, holding the dress to her chest and twirling around the room with it.

"We shouldn't accept this, Eponine," Annette said slowly, though with slight reluctance as she looked at the swirling patterns again. "At least, not until we know who they're from."

Eponine's face fell. "But the party is tomorrow! And we don't have anything to wear anyway, right? What's the harm if someone wanted to help us?" She looked down again at the dress, stroking it in her hands. She seemed to understand what Annette had been thinking, though.

"I remember how much I used to want to be one of those girls in these dresses, going to parties with my friends," she said softly. She looked up at Annette. "We used to never have pretty things in our house. We sold anything of beauty. And not just possessions."

Her words were sad, and Annette knew she was beginning to give way.

"Alright," she conceded. "But I'm going to ask around. I, at least, have to know."

Eponine nodded, not really listening. She glowed with happiness, no doubt already imagining meeting a certain someone in that dress.

For now Annette could allow herself to be excited for the upcoming night. One night of fun, as Courfeyrac had said. And for the first time in a while, Annette did feel a little warm burst of hope bloom in her chest as she awaited the new day.

* * *

"I look like a flamingo," Eponine muttered as she stared at her reflection in the mirror. Her appearance was alien to her all of a sudden. Being dressed in the finery mysteriously provided for her triggered a sort of nervous anticipation, as though she were waiting for something, but didn't know what for.

"Ah, but a very lovely flamingo," Annette teased as she laced up her own corset carefully, dressing alongside Eponine for the upcoming party. "You will make all the men fall at your feet and beg you to fly away with them." She used her hands to imitate the huge beak of Eponine's bird, and Eponine laughed a bit.

Eponine had been watching Annette carefully to find some sort of clue that she was unusually sad or tired, but Annette had seemed to come alive again at the prospect of a night out. She smiled more, she talked more, joked more. She even had a strange glow about her as she hummed while adjusting her petticoats.

"So I assume there'll be dancing?" Eponine asked casually.

Annette paused before replying. "Well, yes, I suppose that is the point. Though I doubt I could manage any more than a slow waltz now."

"Who do you intend to dance with, then?" Eponine asked with a sly grin.

Annette scoffed. "You, of course. You've never danced, have you?"

Eponine stuck her tongue out at her spitefully. "I've danced plenty."

Annette finished with her layers of underskirts and made a sweeping and exaggerated bow that somehow brought Courfeyrac to Eponine's mind.

"We mustn't let you stumble when you dance with a certain bespectacled man," Annette teased. "I have my suspicions he is not the unfortunate dancer he often claims to be."

Eponine felt herself grow hot and couldn't help but entertain the idea of Combeferre leading her in a dance. She shook her head to clear away the thought.

"Don't be stupid, I—" Eponine stopped seeing the look on Annette's face.

Annette was grinning, and offered her hand out to Eponine.

"Care for a dance, milady?" She offered in a deep voice. Eponine sighed and took it.

Annette put her hand on Eponine's waist and instructed Eponine to put her hand on Annette's shoulder.

"Now, we dance," Annette said solemnly, clearly holding back laughter.

They moved clumsily together across the little space of their room, often colliding and stepping on the other's toes. When they finished, Eponine could tell Annette was breathing hard, despite her cheery countenance.

Eponine grew frustrated and a little worried. If she couldn't manage even a slow waltz, how could she be expected to do anything with a male partner?

Annette noticed her concern. "Don't worry, Eponine. I can assure you that Combeferre will not be asking you to dance because he thinks you're an accomplished dancer. He will ask because he loves you."

Eponine shook her head violently and went to sit on her bed.

"Please never speak again."

Annette sighed. "Alright." The moment having passed, she continued dressing. "Can you lace me up?"

—

At approximately six o'clock, the knock on the door sent Eponine in yet another round of anxiety. Yes, she was eager to experience a dance, and yes, she didn't mind so much the dress that she now worried drew too much attention to herself, but...

It was time.

Annette opened the door and peeked out, revealing Courfeyrac and Joly. Both were dressed rather fashionably, more so than usual, in dressy coats and top hats and matching blue waistcoats with silver buttons. Eponine stifled a laugh at their similar state of dress. Yet that was nothing in comparison to Courfeyrac and Joly's reactions to Annette and Eponine's attire.

"My, my, cleaned up, now, have we?" Courfeyrac said, his eyebrows shooting up to the moon. Annette rolled her eyes and gave Eponine a reassuring smile, which Eponine was secretly glad for.

"Shall we go?" Joly asked, holding out his arm to Eponine.

Eponine hesitated, then looked to Annette.

"I believe we had more to discuss, didn't we?"

Annette nodded knowingly and linked her arm through Eponine's as they walked out in front of the men.

Courfeyrac gave Joly a consolatory pat on the shoulder and at last the little group set out.

The evening, though chilly, was a stunning one. The last of the sun's dying light could be seen disappearing on the horizon. The sky was a swirled palette of blues and pinks, and the quiet streets, accompanied by the dim street lights, provided a romantic atmosphere.

Eponine could not have cared less.

As she tapped her fingers in a nervous beat on Annette's arm, Annette turned to her with seriousness.

"You're not truly so afraid of this? Just last night you refused to sleep because of all your chattering on how many songs you would dance to. What is it that makes you so nervous?"

Eponine glanced behind her carefully to ensure Courfeyrac and Joly were out of earshot. Oh, how she didn't want to finally tell Annette the truth. Yet a bigger part of her was demanding it.

"It...it's Auguste," she confessed quietly.

Before Annette could begin some teasing commentary, Eponine shot her a warning look. Annette shook her head.

"I won't tease, I promise. Tell me what it is."

Eponine looked straight ahead as they walked on. "He proposed marriage."

Annette let out a noise between a choke and a gasp before Eponine had finished the sentence.

"Are you alright?" Courfeyrac called from behind. Annette turned around and waved him off.

"Continue," Annette said.

"Two years ago." Eponine dared a glance towards her friend.

"You never told me?" Annette asked, hurt in her eyes.

Eponine bit her lip. "Two years ago he was no more interesting to me in that way than _Courfeyrac_." Annette snorted. "It didn't matter, because I had no regrets about refusing. I never told you because—well, it's taken me a long time to understand you. I didn't know you as well as I do now." The words spilled out as from a will of her own.

Annette sighed. "Yes, and I remember it. The two of you were acting strangely for a while. It was around that time you finally stopped talking about...Marius? The boy you knew?"

Eponine groaned. "Good lord, I've forgotten about him these two years. I don't even know if he exists anymore."

"Though I do think fifteen is too young for marriage," Annette mused. "I think you were right in refusing him. Not that I'd wish him that very great loss..." she smiled.

Eponine sighed. "And you must stop whatever feud is between you two. Really, it's quite stupid."

They walked in silence for a spell. Finally, Annette asked, "Would you do anything differently if he asked again?"

Eponine nodded.

"Then make sure he knows it."

—

The party was held in one of the smaller halls of the 5th Arrondissements of Paris. Upon arriving, Eponine could hear the music playing from inside, and the happy chatter of dozens of young men and women.

"Etienne..." Annette began dubiously.

"Don't worry, _ma cherie_. It's only our friends and their lovers," Courfeyrac assured her with a grin. "I didn't think you'd want to be stuck with an old coot talking about politics all night long. This is a night for the young."

"Isn't Enjolras our old coot?" Joly asked mildly.

Courfeyrac laughed appreciatively. "He is indeed. And rather dashing in that red coat of his, I must say," he added with a look to Annette.

Annette shook her head. "Don't make me weary of you before the night has even begun."

They entered the simply decorated hall, which was cheerfully lit and inviting. It was a mixture of all classes, high to low, talking and laughing, unrestrained by any barriers society had forced upon them. Dashing women in expensive fabrics and precious jewels sashayed by on the arms of modest gentlemen. Some had expensive coattails and ornate clasps, and others wore their Sunday best and fresh flowers from the garden in their hair.

On one side of the room a pianist and pair of violinists played a light and fast-paced country dance on their instruments. Tables of food were laid out with arrangements of all sorts of cakes and chocolates.

Upon seeing these Eponine tugged at Annette's hand and whispered in awe, "So much food..." Her stomach gave a sad whine as they passed by the colorfully assorted cakes.

"You had better not have spent a fortune in this Etienne," Eponine heard Annette murmur to her brother.

"Annie, I promised. The food was made by your friend, Madame Poisson, and some other old women gathered and brought it here. We payed them, of course, but they mainly did it for you. Then the musicians are Jehan's friends, and we all chipped in for the hall. I _promise_," he repeated solemnly and kissed Annette's forehead. "Happy birthday."

Annette wiped her forehead, feigning disgust. "Don't you dare say that again." But a fond smile was visible on her features.

Suddenly they stopped at a table where Combeferre, Bossuet, Bahorel, and an unfamiliar pretty brunette in tasteful clothes were sitting. Joly turned visibly red at the sight of the girl, tapping his nose with his cane in his odd habit of greeting.

"Hello Alexandre," she greeted him with a sweet and demure smile.

Joly gulped and fumbled with his cane clumsily before asking her to dance. Together they left to where other couples were dancing jauntily to the music.

"Musichetta?" Annette asked Courfeyrac knowingly as she watched Joly dance with the girl he so frequently talked about.

Courfeyrac nodded. "It seems she finally came around to Joly's charms."

Bossuet huffed good-naturedly. "Exactly what charms he has that I lack, I'd like to know."

"Hair, I'd guess," Bahorel teased.

Bossuet groaned as he rested his prematurely shiny bald head in his hands.

"Never fear, we'll find you a girl before the night is finished," Courfeyrac told him. "Well," he said, delighted. "Here we are at last."

The men rose to greet Annette and Eponine. Annette murmured something stiffly with downcast eyes to Combeferre, contrasting with her warmer greeting to Bahorel and Bossuet. Eponine felt the sense of discomfort return as Combeferre took in her appearance. Yet nothing in his face indicated any difference in his manner.

"You look lovely," Combeferre said to her as Annette and Courfeyrac went to talk at another table. Bahorel and Bossuet went off together to a group of ladies without partners to beg for a dance.

Eponine fought down the blush she knew must be showing and replied, "And you've looked worse, I suppose." Yet she wouldn't dare deny that he did cut a fine figure in a tailored tailcoat and hunting breeches.

"Thank you," Combeferre replied cheerfully. "Don't you think this waistcoat matches my eyes?"

Eponine laughed nervously, running her hands through the fabric of her dress. They sat down in silence until Combeferre smiled at something to their left.

"Look who's here."

Eponine whipped her head in the direction that Combeferre indicated. In the crowd a still gangly girl of around fifteen or sixteen with auburn hair was ignoring a young flustered student attempting to make conversation as she stuffed her face with cream puffs.

Eponine watched Azelma, who was wearing a familiar dress of Annette's, with satisfaction and a twinge of bittersweet sadness.

No, their relationship would never be the same as it had been, their bond over the hardships they'd suffered having faded. But here was her sister, perhaps willing to forgive her.

Eponine first looked to Combeferre, then Annette over at the next table. Annette caught her eye and glanced at Azelma, a tiny smile dancing on her lips.

—

"'Zelma," Eponine greeted her sister, sending the student away with a glare.

Azelma looked up.

Eponine could still make out the two pale, thin wispy scars on her face from Blaise's punishment. She took a deep breath, preparing for the outburst that would occur.

Azelma watched her coolly. "Eponine."

So. Gone was the passionate thirteen year-old who missed her sister, it seemed.

Eponine wondered what to say. This was what she'd wanted, wasn't it? To get closure, at least, from Azelma?

She swallowed. "I'm sorry."

Azelma shrugged.

Eponine tried again. "For—you know. I know it was always my responsibility to protect you, and—I failed. I'm sorry." She swallowed the dry lump in her throat and held her breath as she waited for a response.

"I protect myself now," Azelma replied, picking apart a strawberry tart in her hands. "That way nobody disappoints me. Not Papa and not you."

"Azelma—"

"I'm leaving Paris," Azelma interrupted. "All of France, actually. I've heard America is nice this time of year." The pointed look in her eyes brought back recent memories that were still too fresh in Eponine's mind.

"You don't mean—"

"With 'Parnasse. He has money, and I need it to get there. What becomes of him after that, I couldn't care less. We leave tomorrow." Azelma's eyes stared back levelly at Eponine, unwavering and solid.

Eponine felt sick. She took in every detail of her sister, from her wild hair to her bony yet delicate featured face, to savor and preserve in her mind. It would be her last memory of her.

Yet some part inside of her knew that this was the way things should be. Azelma wouldn't listen to her or anyone else anymore. She would pave her own path and maybe, just maybe, she would be alright.

A long moment passed before either said another word.

"Eat as much food as you can, then take more," Eponine finally said, forcing a smile. "Who knows when the next time will be."

Azelma nodded, and continued eating her tart. As Eponine walked away there was a look of loneliness in Azelma's eyes that was quickly extinguished from the sight of chocolate.

—

Combeferre watched Eponine pluck at the flowers on her dress absently while staring at the dancing couples. Several men had already asked her to dance, and were discouraged by Eponine waving them away without a second glance. Combeferre didn't know what to think.

He had the feeling that whatever had been said between her and Azelma, it had not been what she had been hoping for.

Tonight was his last chance. He knew it was. Years of waiting, testing, hoping—he had to follow through at last.

If she said no again, he didn't know what he would do.

She looked stunning, yet she seemed so completely unaware of it. She seemed nervous, fidgety, and awkward, and he didn't know why. If he asked her to dance, would she refuse?

Eponine suddenly looked at him, her soulful brown eyes meeting his. As though reading his mind (frightfully accurately, it seemed), she stood and gestured impatiently to the dancing couples.

"Well, are we dancing or not?"

Her words were surly yet her face was eager and, Combeferre realized, hopeful. She had been waiting for him—for she wanted to dance with _him_.

Combeferre stood, trying to slow his pounding heart.

He took Eponine's hand with a smile and adjusted his glasses as he led her to the floor.

"Ready?" He asked.

Eponine nodded with a smile.

And they danced.

* * *

Annette, meanwhile, was enjoying herself as she should in a way she hadn't for years. Despite some of her original qualms about a party thrown for her disastrous birthday, everyone was smiling and happy, and Annette felt it to be right.

As she sat with Courfeyrac Annette felt a squeeze of guilt that he had done this for her. After such a year, with all the hardships he'd been through?

She turned to him to see him eying a red-head in a blue gown.

"Etienne," she said lightly. "You needn't stay here with me; go dance with that girl."

As he started to gallantly protest she interrupted.

"This is me thanking you," she said with a grin. "You are truly amazing. Go on, unless you already have a girl who wouldn't approve, and then you know how I feel—"

"Very well, Annie," Courfeyrac said, laughing. "You won't be alone for long, anyway." He gestured to several of their friends coming over from the other side of the room and waved.

"But first..." Courfeyrac pulled out a small parcel from his pocket wrapped in brown paper tied with string. Annette looked at it suspiciously.

"What is it?"

Courfeyrac cleared his throat. "It's from...my father. He wanted me to give this to you."

Annette stared at the thing in his hands, the alarms ringing in her mind telling her not to take it.

But when had she ever listened to her sensible side?

Annette took the package carefully, feeling the weight of it in her hands, the cool and rough touch of the paper wrapping. She wondered briefly what had possessed old Monsieur de Courfeyrac to attempt to make some form of contact. For he had shunned her existence entirely since their last meeting.

Had he grown softer? Was it more information about her real father? Or was it an attempt to mend the bridge between them?

Annette felt Courfeyrac's hand on her shoulder and looked up.

"You needn't do anything about it now," he said with a teasing smile. "Don't get caught up in his stupid drama; enjoy yourself here and now." He looked up suddenly at a point behind her. "Save me a dance. I must be the first, I insist."

As Annette saw Feuilly and Grantaire approach, Courfeyrac left to pursue the red head, who had made a very stern pout upon seeing Courfeyrac with Annette.

"Hello, Annie," Feuilly greeted her cheerfully. "And how is the Mademoiselle of honor?" He too, was dressed neatly in the finer clothes he'd always kept carefully stowed away for special occasions. Annette often wondered how many shifts at the factory he'd had to work to afford them.

Annette returned the smile, which was beginning to be a lot less forced than formerly.

"Don't start too," she said. "It isn't about me. It is only our friends gathered together to...have a night of dancing and enjoyment."

"Indeed," Grantaire agreed. "And the fact that Courfeyrac made us practice a song to sing for you in front of everybody?"

Annette's heart stopped. "He didn't," she said. _God, I will kill him._

But the grins on Feuilly and Grantaire's faces assured her otherwise. Annette breathed a sigh of relief as the two joined her at the table.

"I thought you were better than this," Annette said.

Grantaire shrugged. "Your mistake."

Feuilly ran a hand through his hair as he looked out at the dancers. "It's a folly for you to sit here. You should eat something, it'll give you the strength to dance at least nine dances. I believe you'll need it."

"Ah, he only wants you to eat those little pear cakes," Grantaire said. "Spent the whole day with the old ladies making them."

Annette looked at Feuilly with surprise. "Really? I didn't know you baked."

Feuilly laughed, though visibly displeased with Grantaire's comment. "I used to be a baker's apprentice."

After promising to try his cakes, Annette heard the music slow as couples fell into a slow but graceful waltz. She felt a longing inside of her to move with the music as she had used to, and she couldn't help but reflect it on her face.

Grantaire looked at Annette from the corner of his eyes and sighed begrudgingly, giving a quick glare to silence Feuilly. "Know that this will never happen again," he grumbled as he took her hand and pulled her to her feet, leading her to the floor.

Annette controlled her smile and nodded seriously, falling into step with Grantaire and secretly marveling at his technique. He danced better than most, if not all, of her former instructors. He had a sort of elasticity in his step that most certainly did _not_ show when he was drunk off his feet. Despite her best attempts, Annette couldn't help but laugh in amazement.

"Another one of your hidden talents?"

Grantaire grimaced. "Not that it has ever been of much use. Not in love, nor in practicality."

"Oh, I'm sure you could woo any girl you wished with your dancing," Annette teased.

Grantaire raised an eyebrow. "I wouldn't be so sure."

Annette nodded jesting agreement, though noting that this was the first time she had ever missed the heavy smell of alcohol from Grantaire's breath. The wonders it did the man.

"Say...are you sober?"

Grantaire scoffed. "Never. Only tonight slightly more so. You didn't think I would dance otherwise, did you?"

As they glided on the dance floor, Annette suddenly faltered and missed a step. She felt her cheeks grow hot, and, as Grantaire put an arm out to steady her, he turned his head in the direction she had been looking.

There was Enjolras with his back turned to them, talking to Feuilly. Courfeyrac hadn't exaggerated the state of his appearance; his vibrant red coat contrasted vividly with his otherwise pale face and gold hair. Though he looked the part of the prince, however, he was almost ridiculously awkward-looking. He was restless on his feet, which Annette imagined spitefully were graceless for dancing, and he took up the habit of running his hand through his hair every few moments.

Grantaire let out a dry chuckle as he slowly led her back into the last few bars of the waltz.

"What an eyesore, eh?"

Annette rolled her eyes, feeling that familiar ache creep into her chest from the movement of the dance.

"It would suit you very well to be quiet."

"You'll need to preserve your best dance for him, I suppose," Grantaire said as the dance ended. They released each other and stood inches apart, a sudden heaviness in the air.

Annette realized with surprise how much she had come to need Grantaire— occasionally her first impression of his almost permanent drunken state still recurred to her. But he had become a strange confidante who (she hoped) was too drunk to remember most of her tearful rants, and through a web of sarcasm and cynicism, the occasional truth of his affection for everyone escaped him.

They moved out of the way of the other dancers towards the food, where Grantaire plopped a pear cake into her hands insistently. As she picked pieces off with her fingers and popped them into her mouth, Grantaire pulled a small leather book out from his coat.

He cleared his throat. "Here. Although I'm not entirely sure whether I should trust you never to show this to anyone, this is for you."

Annette finished the cake and wiped the crumbs from her hands, her interest piqued. "Oh, how adorable!" She teased Grantaire. "It looks like someone is quite soft-hearted after all."

Grantaire shook his head with a small smile. "This is the first thing I could find to give you five minutes before I left my apartment. Since I believe in honesty, there you have it."

Annette flipped through the pages, smiling as she saw pencil drawings of the Amis in various positions, some candid, others posed. Joly, his nose blotchy from a cold, Combeferre and Eponine huddled over a book, Bahorel with his fists in the air and a brash smile, showing a little gamin boy how to fight. There was Bossuet asleep on a chair as Courfeyrac and Jehan stacked dominoes on his face, and Feuilly talking animatedly with Marius.

Then there were the ones of Enjolras, which were many. The profile of the side of his face, or just his burning and fiery eyes, his face contorted into a look of disdain. The fact that those scornful eyes, drawn so realistically and with such life, were staring back at her, Annette felt a shudder at the thought of being on the receiving end of that glare.

Which Grantaire often was.

There were sketches of _her_. Arguing (presumably with Enjolras), reading, talking, laughing, sleeping at a table (when had he drawn that?). Sitting with Enjolras side by side at the piano or arms crossed as they faced each other in a challenge. Annette lying on her back, her hair fanned about her on the grass in the Luxembourg. The sweeping lines of the rough charcoal breathed life into the people Annette loved so dearly, capturing and freezing rare moments of time so close, so personal, moments that meant everything. Moments of a life that was coming to an end.

Annette looked up at Grantaire, her mouth dry and unable to properly thank him. Instead she threw her arms around him in an embrace, much to his surprise, refusing to allow his escape for at least a few moments.

"Thank you," she whispered. She released him then, and added, "Though there is something missing in it."

"What?"

"You."

"I am not important. Now go dance with everybody. Who knows how long it will last."

With that, he retreated into some corner to a bottle of wine and a blonde grisette.

—

As promised, all of the Amis were determined to have one dance with Annette. Bossuet whisked her away enthusiastically shortly after she parted with Grantaire. He was absolutely terrible, a mess of clumsy limbs and missteps, but Annette found his cheerful chatter made up for it. He filled the space with puns about the food, taking full advantage of the opportunity Feuilly's pear cakes gave him.

"We make quite the _pear_ tonight, don't we Annie?" Bossuet beamed, proud of himself. Annette laughed.

"We do indeed."

"Wait till you see what Joly and I have for you."

"More puns?"

"More puns."

Indeed, Joly did not disappoint. After they danced and talked, Joly put on a serious face and handed her an envelope sealed with a wax skull seal, which smiled horribly. "For you. Be sure to open it later. You'll know when. This face is rather horrifying, though, isn't it? But Bossuet insisted..."

Annette watched him amusedly as he snuck a glance to Musichetta talking to Bossuet.

"I take it things are going well?"

Joly turned to her with stars in his eyes. "She calls me her _joli garçon._ I have found the one, Annette."

Annette agreed. If Joly could find someone who appreciated puns as much as he and all of the Amis did, perhaps fate was not so cruel. Even though she had to stop Joly several times from taking her pulse as they danced, he was not so worried about the dangers of human mortality. As she watched him go off again with Musichetta, Annette felt the music in the air, the rhythm of dozens of dancing feet tapping the ground, and the pulse of lively chatter and laughter. She felt then and there from the energy of the night it would be one she'd always remember.

When she dragged Feuilly out to dance, Jehan at that moment insisted on performing a solo piece on his flute, much to the other musicians' obvious annoyance. But the rest of the Amis smiled ear to ear with pride at Jehan as they stood and listened to him play, notably Bahorel.

Jehan stopped a few seconds in. "What are you doing, standing around? I provide the music, you provide the dancing."

Hurriedly Annette and Feuilly tried to find a rhythm to dance to, instead falling into each other with muffled laughter as the sound of Jehan' lone flute filled the air. After a while of it, the pianist and one violinist decided to join him. The other violinist was seen later stuffing his face angrily with Feuilly's pear cakes.

Feuilly abruptly stopped at the end of the piece with relief on his face. Knowing his abhorrence for dancing, Annette understood. He handed her a carefully wrapped object from his coat.

"Don't open it now," he said with a nervous chuckle. "It's nothing, really. But it's the best I could do."

Ignoring his protestations Annette pulled away the wrapping paper, revealing a small glass blown rose with clear pink petals curling up from its darker center. Annette immediately knew he must have made it himself, and not for the first time wondered just how many abilities like these Feuilly possessed.

"It's beautiful," Annette told him firmly. "I don't understand how you could think otherwise but—thank you."

Jehan put his flute down at last to dance, and spoke the whole time about a poem he was enamored with.

"I had never believed something could fill my heart so! But do you think, for all the poetry and art it has inspired, love is just as wonderful as history has led us to believe?"

Annette shook her head immediately. "No, and most certainly not for women. Perhaps men have the time to waste on simply deciding on what they want, but women do not. The room does not slow when they meet one's eyes, and music does not play either to make one's head spin."

Jehan smiled, unfazed. "Look at what all that time with Grantaire has done for you. A disbeliever in love. But I have the remedy." He pulled out an ornate ring of tightly woven flowers and placed it on her head with satisfaction.

Annette was then greeted by Bahorel, and as they danced Annette found herself catching the sight of a certain red waistcoat as they whirled around the floor. Bahorel was especially lively, and upon noticing her distraction teased her mercilessly.

Despite demanding the first, Courfeyrac was the seventh to dance with her; a lucky number, he insisted without apology. From the wide smile on his face Annette guessed he had been successful with the red head.

At the end of their dance, as Annette stood, more than a little breathless, a voice made her look up.

"May I have the next dance?"

Combeferre waited patiently, his hands behind his back. Eponine had left him, it seemed, in favor of the food table before Feuilly's now famous cakes could disappear. Annette couldn't help but stiffen as Courfeyrac gave her a hard nudge. She shot him a glare as he made his escape from the tense situation, then slowly met Combeferre's eyes.

"Fine."

When the music picked up once more and they were in close proximity for the first time in weeks, Annette felt the old determination to hate him stir inside of her. Perhaps it was being spiteful for nothing. After all, did any of that matter so much now?

Combeferre was a good dancer, Annette begrudgingly acknowledged, and Eponine must have had quite a bit of enjoyment.

"Annette, I know that I am not your favorite person currently," Combeferre began after a brief remark about the architecture of the building. "But I believe this anger you've directed towards me needs to be resolved." He looked at her with gentle but firm eyes.

Annette looked away, pouring all her focus into the steps of the dance. "What you did was wrong," she said quietly. "You never should have gotten yourself so involved because you wanted to fix everything, be a matchmaker. You just made everything worse."

Combeferre hesitated. "I know, and I am sorry. I sent you that day to our apartment, not really for you, but for him. I was hoping that if I pushed him, Enjolras would make things right again."

Annette said nothing, swallowing the growing lump in her throat as she remembered the humiliation of that day.

"Annette," Combeferre continued softly. "I'd like for us to be friends again."

After a pause, Annette replied, "So would I. I haven't quite found someone else as willing to discuss about the importance of women's literature." She finally met his eyes, giving him a quirk of a smile. Then, of course, Combeferre reached inside his coat pocket.

"Funny you should say that, actually. Perhaps we can go over this some time." He showed her a small book, revealing a compilation of essays and reviews of several of her favorite female authors.

Annette took the book, flipping through the pages. "Perhaps you were missed after all," she told Combeferre, who grinned.

She was still standing with Combeferre, when she was next asked to dance.

Annette looked up, and saw Enjolras.

* * *

It had taken Enjolras the whole of two hours to gather up his courage and ask Annette to dance. He had been standing around like a fool as every single one of his friends spun her around, making her laugh and smile. When he saw her with Combeferre, he had at last snapped. He knew the two had grown distant, and had seen the cold looks Annette gave him. But it seemed that she'd forgiven him, for there they were, dancing. His hand on her waist, the hard lines of her mouth gradually softening again, the pair of them sharing a moment over a book Combeferre had given her...

And suddenly Enjolras had found himself next to them, his words and actions quite out of his control, asking her to dance.

Annette looked at him slowly, the smile on her lips fading slightly. Enjolras couldn't resist staring at her; it seemed like years had passed since they had last spoken, and she somehow had changed. There was a new quiet strength behind her eyes that hadn't been there before. She appeared ready to laugh, ready to speak openly as she used to. Her eyes weren't sad, or desperate. They were clear and bright and—

Happy.

She very nearly glowed.

"I'm sorry..." Annette began.

Enjolras felt the mortification of knowing Combeferre was there, watching this. He cursed that part of his unfettered passions which he had stupidly allowed to take control of himself and to put him in a position of vulnerability. Enjolras braced himself for her next words, already a still resignation overwhelming him while his brain informed him usefully that he had royally flopped.

But in the moments that passed Enjolras didn't notice Combeferre leave, or Annette take a small step closer to him and draw a deep breath before the first strains of a new song could play. He almost thought he was dreaming when she took his hand in hers and put her other on his shoulder. Mechanically, almost, he found himself putting his hand delicately on her waist, as though afraid to actually touch her.

They moved slowly, the music enveloping them both in a sort of warm embrace, causing their movements to be smooth and graceful. Their eyes were locked onto each other's, but neither dared to say a word yet.

"It's been a strange year, hasn't it?" Annette suddenly asked softly.

Enjolras had to force himself to respond, breaking free of that part of him that only wanted to remain silent in this dance with her forever.

"How so?"

Annette let out a quiet, short laugh. "I think we have all been changed. You as well. Is that humor I detect, Monsieur?"

Enjolras swallowed, his heart hammering nervously in his chest. He had waited for so long for Annette to give him some sort of chance, and now he simply did not know what to do.

"Changed for the better, I hope."

"Yes," Annette whispered, her eyes suddenly distant, as though recalling something.

"Annette," Enjolras said suddenly, trying to keep the pain out of his voice. Her name tumbled out of his mouth with no warning, and only when he felt the relief of the release did he want to finish. As they twirled slowly on the floor, Annette met his eyes once more, waiting.

"If things had been different—you know—would you have said yes? Would you have wanted to marry me?"

She looked away again, becoming absorbed in the dance. Enjolras had despaired of ever managing to mend their relationship again when Annette finally dragged her gaze to him. He could sense her nervousness—he thought he could feel her hand in his tremble slightly for a fraction of a second—and she nodded.

"A thousand times over," she said quietly. "But—things _aren't_ different." Seeing Enjolras relapse into despair, she continued. "But perhaps tonight we can pretend they are."

Enjolras' heart soared and for the moment forgot all that he was. Long nights sitting stiffly at his desk, ink and words swimming before his eyes as he studied, planned, forever preparing for something that seemed to never come. A leader, a chief, a revolutionary. The weight of hundreds of tiny and colossal responsibilities resting on his shoulders, burdens he refused to allow anyone else to carry. There was nothing now except for Annette in front of him, a vision in blue. Nothing else mattered.

Not the dancers around them, nor the musicians. The pair hardly noticed when the musicians began a new piece, or when Bossuet stood and fell off of one of the tables. Only the dance mattered to them, because they knew when it was over the spell would be broken.

Annette felt a sense of calm wash over her, the warmth that she used to feel when she was with Enjolras. Though she wouldn't admit it, even to herself, the absence of his love and friendship from her life had left a gaping hole in her, and she had had nothing with which to fill it in.

Why she had accepted she would never know. She had been inclined to turn him down gracefully, to make an excuse for herself. She could have said she wasn't feeling well, or the dancing was becoming too much for her, or the food wasn't sitting well in her stomach.

But she hadn't. She almost had, but something had stopped her. Perhaps the gentle melody of the waltz had guided her heart, or she simply found herself unable to refuse Enjolras again. Either way, Combeferre had left with a triumphant look on his face to rejoin Eponine, and they watched the ill-fated lovers from afar.

The dance ended, replaced by a ridiculously fast and lighthearted country dance. Annette stopped, smiling a little at Enjolras, the magical feeling slowly fading. These few minutes, however wonderful they had been, were over. It felt like the end of everything they had been through, somehow. It was as though the dance had been a last farewell to each other forever.

Annette felt a pang in her heart and began to quickly return to the tables to sit down. Enjolras followed her, somehow calm and collected. Annette wondered if he had felt it too, if he had wished it could have drawn on for longer.

"Annette, wait. Must this be the end? We part now, and what? We return to never speaking again?"

Annette sought an empty table and sat down, feeling the nine dances begin to take a toll on her. Enjolras drew up a chair next to her, his eyebrows knitting together in a troubled line.

"One dance can't fix everything," Annette reminded him.

"Why not? We were brought together by less."

"Since when have you ever believed in love, or fate, or whatever it is you're talking about now?"

"I don't," Enjolras replied. He hesitated. "But I believe in you. Even though you may not."

Annette scoffed, trying not to let his words affect her though she was on the very brink of tears.

"Then everything I've sacrificed would be for nothing," Annette said.

Enjolras shook his head determinedly. "Never."

Annette looked away, wondering how she was supposed to resist this, to be strong, to do the right thing, to say no.

Or maybe one night wouldn't matter. Maybe for one night they could be friends, even more than friends. It was just one night.

_One night. Just one night._ She repeated the words again and again her mind.

She looked up at Enjolras, and seeing his eyes, still and so hopeful she gave in.

The rest of the night passed along merrily. Annette and Enjolras found that they wouldn't be left alone for too long before the rest of their friends joined them. Drinks were passed around, food was consumed with an alarming alacrity, and not a soul was affected by their worries and woes. In the company of intimate friends and lovers, all was well and right with the world.

When Grantaire noticed Enjolras' silence, a smile crept onto his face and he commented, "Poor Enjolras has no reason to preach about ideals tonight, seeing as we have not exploited the working class for a party and all that. Am I right?"

"If you were more willing to spare a few francs for the poor as you do parties, the world would be better off," Enjolras retorted half-heartedly.

Courfeyrac, horrified upon seeing a potential political debate aroused in the midst of such a party, interjected immediately. "Yes, to the poor in spirit," he said. "Now hush."

Bahorel and his laughing mistress Suzanne proved to provide sufficient entertainment as they bickered dangerously through the night. When Bahorel commented on the purple color of her dress making her look like mock royalty, Suzanne promptly and "royally" (as she put it) spilled her wine on his lap, leaving a royal purple stain on his light breeches.

Feuilly shocked everyone by appearing with an outgoing and robust girl, who announced herself as his fiancé.

"The first of us to be swallowed by domestic life!" Shouted Courfeyrac after having recovered from the surprise. "How bereft you will leave us, good Feuilly! Gone are the days of our brotherhood, of our delightful conversations, and—"

"It's just marriage, Courfeyrac," Feuilly interrupted him irritatedly, though with a sparkle of pride and amusement in his eyes.

Even Bossuet found himself a partner for the night, and raised his eyebrows smugly to Joly and Musichetta. It was a girl Courfeyrac hid from every time she swept her glance in his direction.

"An old mistress," he whispered to Annette, who scoffed in disgust, shoving him back.

Jehan was given the attentions of a cheerful girl who, try as she might, could not get Jehan to understand her interest.

"Do you like poetry?"

"Oh, poetry, is, well...it's _poetry_." She batted her eyelashes and pressed closer to him.

"Indeed! Let me read you some now from these sonnets..."

Grantaire, after several rounds of wine, was suited to returning to his favorite sport of provoking Enjolras. Yet the frequent comments cast in his direction failed to cause the usual annoyance. He and Annette simply found themselves sharing little glances, stray laughs, spare smiles.

Combeferre and Eponine were inseparable that night, though they both tried to hide it. Eponine laughed and mocked the others for their blind devotions as Combeferre watched her with a contented smile.

So it was. They laughed, they chattered on through the night, believing that such days would always be there. But eventually the night was destined to end, and the moon would in but a few short hours be forced to relinquish her place in the sky to the sun. The night waned and soon, too soon, they began to grow drowsy.

With happy, slow goodbyes, the friends left the hall (which was left to be tidied back up by some unhappy old committee members) and began their walks home.

They might have taken a carriage, but it is different to walk the streets of Paris at night rather than sit enclosed in a rickety box. The air was peaceful and almost warm for late April, and the large group had the opportunity to fill the space with their talk. There was an unmistakable feeling of melancholy as one by one the friends parted from the group to go their own way home. Soon it was just Annette, Enjolras, Combeferre, Eponine, and Courfeyrac (he proved to be unlucky with the redhead that night).

At the door of their apartment, Eponine cleared her throat loudly and said to Annette, "We are going to go walk by ourselves for a while. I'll be back a little later." Annette nodded, secretly glad she could have a private moment with Enjolras.

As Eponine and Combeferre disappeared around the corner, Enjolras took Annette's hand fondly and kissed it.

"I've only now realized I never got you something for your birthday," he said guiltily, having noted all the trinkets he and Annette had carried inside her home. Now they stood outside again, loitering before the door, leaning on the iron railing leading up and down the steps.

"Don't be stupid," Annette said, laughing. "I believe the mere fact that you would come to such a party is indication enough that you care. Did it pain your republican sensibilities to see so many well-dressed ladies and gentlemen today?"

Enjolras passed a hand over her shoulder, brushing the fine and delicate lace adorning her neckline. "Perhaps surprised at yours. I don't believe I've ever seen you in something so...ornate?"

Annette wore a sudden look of discomfort at the task of explaining the dress. "Because the ornate stage was years ago, and I have since grown into my common sense. But this, well—"

Enjolras didn't care care about the dress. Not at all. Perhaps yesterday, or tomorrow, but here?

"It doesn't matter," he told her, taking her hands in his in the dim lights of the street. "You are beautiful—in whatever you do."

Annette stared at him so intensely for a moment, Enjolras almost fell over in the heat of her gaze.

Suddenly she brought her hands to his face and pulled him down gently to kiss him. Her lips moved harder and faster than that first simple kiss they'd shared in the Luxembourg. They seemed to be filled with desperation as she pulled him in. Somehow, naturally, Enjolras held the back of her head and pulled her body a touch closer to his. His heart hammered wildly in his chest and he felt adrenaline shoot through his nerves. They broke away, slightly out of breath.

He held her close for a moment then stepped away, suddenly embarrassed.

Annette coughed. "That was rather scandalous."

Enjolras shook his head, dizzy. "I swear you will be the end of me."

Annette grinned. "You've already been my demise."

Enjolras let his fingers fall through a couple of stray curls at the nape of her neck before moving aside so she could go inside. Annette lingered at the doorway, a devious gleam in her eyes.

"Good night, Enjolras."

"_Bon nuit_, Annette."


	2. chapter 2

Angeline stared at her beautiful face in the mirror in admiration and hate. How could a man who clearly shared her goals turn down one so clever, pretty, and devilish as she? Even if it was only temporary.

It was all because of that silly little girl, Annette. What had she to recommend her? _Besides_, Angeline thought as she looked tearfully at the mirror, _that fortune of hers._

"We will soon be rich enough, darling," Blaise had said. His lips curled into a menacing smile that Angeline couldn't help but swoon over. How perfect could a man be?

"Will we live in the biggest house in Paris?" Angeline asked flirtatiously, batting her lashes and running a hand down his chest. Blaise nodded.

"The biggest and the best, once I'm married. All of Paris will fall at our feet. I've had enough of this wretched life, and quite frankly the world will be better to have me as a leader again."

Angeline tensed. "I still don't see why you have to marry Annette," she huffed. _Mon Dieu, how that name makes my blood boil._

Blaise smirked. "It's simple, my dear little idiot. I can only have her fortune as her husband, and when she dies—" Angeline grinned. "—I'll have it all. It's so unfortunate, really, for such a young flower to be picked so soon."

"More like a weed," Angeline sneered. A thought came to her. "Who's going to do it? We cannot possibly risk you being found out. It is far too dangerous, though I'd wring her neck in a heartbeat."

Blaise smiled reassuringly and patted her hand. "Not to worry, my dear. Thénardier and his gang will do the job, since I promised them a share in the profits. His brat, Eponine, even has a role in this. She will help lure Annette." He laughed viciously.

Angeline found herself irritated by his laugh. "Yes, but that's quite impossible," she reflected. "She'll be loyal to Annette. I've seen her with those schoolboys."

Blaise patted her hair condescendingly. "Ah, _mon cherie_, that is the best part. If she does not comply, her brother and sister will die instead. I don't believe Thénardier will have any qualms on that head. Just imagine how perfect it will be! Annette will be betrayed by her own close friend!"

"Yes, but when are you going to do it? Have we not waited long enough?"

Blaise scowled. "That is the only problem. The details of her dowry are odd. She is to receive the fortune when she is twenty..." Blaise counted in his head. "Four. If she marries earlier her fortune is revoked. It was her mother that decided that. We have yet another year."

"I don't care, but tell me why Blaise," Angeline insisted impatiently.

Blaise cocked an eyebrow in question.

"Why twenty-four?"

Blaise let out a dry laugh. "I should hardly think you'd like to know that, Angeline." His tone was clipped and formal, and Angeline's curiosity burned ten times stronger.

"Tell me!" She cried. "Or, or..." she looked about the room wildly for something to throw at him.

"You will what? Throw a vase at me?"

Blaise laughed arrogantly and knowingly.

Angeline burned with rage for being so transparent. Then an idea occurred to her. She smiled sweetly and discreetly pulled her sleeves down, exposing her bare white shoulders. "Please, _mon amour?"_

Blaise drew her in roughly and quickly agreed.

"Her mother married de Courfeyrac at an exceptionally young age, as arranged by her family. Fourteen or fifteen, I think. I believe theirs was a loveless marriage. Anyway, she did not want the same for her daughter and thus made the terms. Though I cannot for the life of me understand what difference twenty-four is from fourteen. I've had many even younger."

"We can still make her life miserable, Blaise," Angeline offered smilingly.

Blaise agreed. "To live a life apart from the wretched and the spiritless."

Angeline nodded in admiration. "You're so clever, Blaise," she gushed. Blaise smoothed his hair and flashed that irresistible smile.

"I know, sweetheart."

Now Angeline realized that she did not just want Annette to die. She wanted to watch her suffer, and she knew just the way to do it. She had learned in her life that the most efficient kill was one straight through the heart.

First, she would start with her brother. Then with that blond man, the lover. She could turn them against Annette. Annette would be alone and hated when she took her last breaths.

* * *

Eponine had decided long ago how she would kill Blaise. A generous dose of laudanum in his whiskey flask and he would fall right asleep, never to wake up. Or maybe she could use the knife she always carried around; regrettably, she feared Blaise would overpower her in that area.

Every day she waited for the opportunity to do it. Every day she watched his cruelty and sadistic nature plot to destroy the lives of the only people who cared about her.

But then she would realize that she couldn't _kill_ a man. She had done many terrible things in her life but she did not intend to have murder on the list as well.

So what was she to do?

She would tell Combeferre. In fact, several times Eponine had almost gathered up her courage to tell Combeferre why she came home bruised and beaten. More times than she could count had she been about to let him know of everything, when something would interrupt her and the moment would be over. Eponine knew, though, that she was afraid. She was afraid of what Combeferre might say if he learned how tangled in this web of lies she was. How could he ever be kind and patient with her again?

_Soon_, Eponine told herself. _There's no better time to do something than tomorrow._

As Eponine grew older she began to feel something was different. Or rather, a lack of feeling in general. She remembered the hours she used to spend dreaming about Marius rescuing her from her parents' home and bringing her home. Well, he'd gotten her out, and she'd certainly found a fine enough home with Annette, but what was she to dream of now?

When Combeferre's gentle face appeared in her mind she would only smile to herself and shake her head. Combeferre was just a friend, of course. It was Marius she loved, and had always loved. Wasn't it?

_"Eponine!" The sweet, impatient voice called out to her from afar._

_Eponine turned and beamed as she saw Marius stalk toward her eagerly._

_"Hello, Marius, I—"_

_"I need you to do something for me," Marius interrupted. Eponine's heart gave a sad sigh. She met his eyes hopefully._

_"Anything you need, m'sieur."_

_Marius gave her half a smile and said, "I need to find a girl. The most beautiful girl in the world."_

When Eponine thought of Marius now, it was always these words she heard. _The most beautiful girl in the world._ For one brief, foolish moment, she had dared to hope that he was talking about her, and he was telling her at last what she meant to him. She winced often in embarrassment at her foolishness, and would still remember the pain of his words. But the pain was dull now, it had been numbed, and was replaced with kinder, gentler memories.

_"I can't do this." Eponine stared blankly at the pages of Shakespeare before her, tears coming to her eyes. She was so stupid. So what if she knew basic grammar? This was beyond anything she'd ever seen. This was a whole new language._

_"Why would you think that?" Asked Combeferre calmly. He looked at the open book again._

_"I'm stupid, Combeferre. I'll never be able to learn because that's who I am. A stupid and uneducated gamin." She buried her head in her hands, embarrassed._

_"I'm afraid, then, we don't quite see eye to eye," Combeferre remarked, a sparkle in his eye. He pushed the book away and turned toward her, lifting her head from her hands. Eponine expected hate and irritation to show in his eyes, the way they'd glowed in maman's and papa's. But as always, they were infinitely patient, kind, and loving._

_"You cannot let your past define who you are for the rest of your life, Eponine. All that matters is that you are willing to learn. Do you think Rome was built in a day?" He smiled, and Eponine found herself smiling as well._

She never acknowledged that her favorite days were the ones she saw Combeferre. Or that even when Blaise was demeaning her, hurting her, and threatening her, the thought of his face made it all bearable. Yes, she would tell him. She would tell him tomorrow, certainly.

It was a perfect day when a dark reminder of her past came to visit.

It was the height of April, the rain had ceased, the flowers were once more venturing their heads out of the soil to greet the sun. The Luxembourg gardens were once again bustling with visitors and admirers of the beautiful, and it was here that Eponine was to be yanked back into that grim reality which she had shoved to the back of her mind.

Eponine was practicing the reading Combeferre had shown her. Sometimes she went whole paragraphs with ease, and other times she would spend hours trying to analyze a single word. It was one of these particularly frustrating words that caused Eponine at that moment to look up, and thus notice a small, thin, and ragged figure standing a few feet away.

"Azelma?"

Her thirteen year-old sister stared back in contempt.

"About time you showed up. This is how you treat family, eh?" The surly tones were so similar to her father's that Eponine almost thought it was actually him in disguise.

"What do you mean?" She asked, moving on her bench so Azelma could sit. She noted the knotted auburn curls and calloused hands and feet. So things were not any better at home still. A pang of guilt shot through Eponine's heart.

"You left me with them!" Azelma burst. "With just me in the room, what'd you think was going to happen? Because it ain't peachy, 'Ponine, it ain't. It's worse without you there, and they take it out on me." Azelma shoved Eponine away when she tried to speak. "You're selfish. Ever since you met that stupid boy next door you've changed. Why can't you just come back? Papa has a new job that will pay very well if it goes well, and we'll be rich!"

Eponine retorted, "Do you know what that job is, Azelma? Murder. The murder of an innocent girl, my friend."

"We have been living on nothing for years! Don't we deserve a break from this? That rich girl had it all from the very beginning. Cushy, comfy life, grand staircases and men calling on her, feathered hats and balls. Don't we deserve that for all our trouble? What has she done to deserve it?"

"You don't know what you're talking about, Azelma. It isn't so simple as that."

"If it isn't, why are you not helping me? You have a new life that you didn't care to invite me in, did you? Now that you have clothes and food, you don't need this." Azelma glared at her. "But I do."

"I am keeping you safe," Eponine said. "You have no idea how much danger both of our lives are in right now. And you're a complete idiot if you think Papa will help you."

Azelma broke into sobs. Eponine ignored her.

"What do you want, Azelma?"

Azelma stopped briefly, and looked up with large, watery eyes that burned with fury and grief. "For you to come back. For you to fix things. And for you to call me 'Zelma again like you used to."

Here she burst into sobs again, resting her head on Eponine's shoulder. Silently Eponine drew her close, wondering just what she was supposed to do now.

* * *

It is always best to start the day with a fiery debate and argument. So the members of the Friends of the ABC thought when they first witnessed the flare-ups between Enjolras and Annette. Grantaire enjoyed these performances, and encouraged them when he could. Often he could be seen cheering and drinking to each argument. However, as these occurrences quickly became the norm, so too did their attitudes toward them change. They all longed for the day when the fighting would end at last, even Grantaire. There is a point when darkness can be too much, even for the blind man.

"Am I the only one who thinks that it is time to make a change?" Enjolras' words echoed in the unusually quiet cafe. Not a soul stirred, and all waited in tense anticipation as the scene of drama unfolded.

Annette faced him challengingly, her stance open and defiant. "Is this what you call making a change? Jeopardizing everybody for the sake of some small impact? Why don't you see it will not last?"

That morning, Enjolras had received important news. If was information that could advance their revolution, and ever since Jehan had witnessed the death of that boy, he'd felt it was time to seize every chance they had. After all, that was what everybody was telling him to do, was it not? The last year had been idle in terms of action, and here was a chance to change it.

A small group of laborers had declared a strike. These people lived in the darkest and most terrible pits of Paris, and were a prime example of the suffering of the people, in Enjolras' mind. They were few, yes, but if they had support, more people might understand.

He felt that where once Annette would have understood, she now only shot him down. For months she'd found ways to turn the members' heads to other ideas, ones she claimed were better than his own. She no longer spoke to him; she _fought_ him, and bitterly, on every kind of subject, whether it were meeting times or plans. Enjolras was frustrated with the lack of support he received from his friends. He began to fear that perhaps they no longer wished to listen to him.

"Does not every man count towards the end of tyranny and the birth of a new world? Should we really choose between the causes we fight for?" Enjolras felt he'd cornered her with this, until he saw the terrifyingly determined glint in Annette's eyes.

"Of course every man counts," she said darkly. "It's because I don't want you to die foolish and preventable deaths! Do you really think the gendarmes will stop at giving you warning shots? It is not worth risking _years _of planning and work for something like this!

"Enj—Monsieur, I don't think you've been around such people enough. Yes, you have seen them on the street, you have heard from others, but I have spoken to them. Eponine knows them. They are not fighting for better wages, safer working conditions, and fair treatment. They have simply stopped working because they disagree with the foreman's politics. There is a difference between a strike and just complete disregard for life."

"I never knew you to be unfeeling to those less fortunate than you, Mademoiselle," Enjolras replied, disregarding the look of hurt on her face.

Enjolras paced the room. It helped him think. He was right, he knew he was, and yet this battle seemed so pointless.

Annette glared at Enjolras. The look she gave him sent a pang to his heart. Hadn't they been good friends? Close, even? Yet the very thing that brought them together was now tearing them apart. Determined not to be outdone, Enjolras glared back.

"No matter what you say, Annette, I am the leader of this group. My word is final."

Annette bit back, "Do you know what you sound like? An overbearing _dictator._ Isn't this exactly what you want to rid France of? People who will not listen to anybody else's opinion?"

"I think you are forgetting that we are a democracy. Anyone who wishes to may voice their opinion, and all I am doing is giving mine." Enjolras took a step in advance so that he towered over her. Annette paid no attention. She took a step forward and stared him straight in the eyes.

"A democracy still needs to have principles. And deciding to risk everything for a few men in their fight for idleness is an example of the wrong principle. The people need to be inspired by people who will not make careless mistakes! We are not ready! What don't you understand about this?"

"No, Annette," Enjolras shook his head. "I believe it is _you _who are not ready."

A desperate anger Enjolras had never before associated with Annette came into her eyes. She appeared as though she were about to say more, but the fire in her eyes seemed to extinguish and she turned away. Before she could leave Enjolras found himself putting a hand on her shoulder.

"You cannot leave every time we have a disagreement," he said. Annette shook him off angrily.

"Yes, actually, I can and I will. I am sick of having to defend myself every meeting to you. You may be the honored 'chief' to these men but you are no leader of me." She pushed him away and he threw his hands up in frustration.

"When will you admit what this is really about?" Enjolras said bitterly. Annette ignored him and kept walking. Enjolras followed her. "You want to take over as leader. Ever since you've arrived you've charmed everybody into loving you, and because you can't keep your group of women together you turn to them instead! Well, that can't happen because I know you have been lying to us. To me, to Courfeyrac even."

Annette's hands shook. Whether with anger or tension, Enjolras couldn't tell. She stopped suddenly, right in front of the door of the Musain.

"You have no idea what you speak of, Monsieur, so I suggest you refrain from running your mouth off like this. It is when you let your emotions get the best of you that you lose your head." As she stormed out a sudden peace fell on he room.

Before she was gone Enjolras found himself saying, not through any will of his own, coldly, "Do not bother coming back, Mademoiselle. You are no longer welcome."

The words tasted metallic and strange, and Enjolras suddenly felt sick. When Annette walked out of the Cafe Musain without a second glance he had to control the pain in his chest from expanding.

"What the hell was that?" Courfeyrac stood up and faced Enjolras. "Don't you dare speak to her like that, Enjolras, don't you dare. What right have you to throw her out because you don't like something she says? We're only a democracy when you choose? What about—"

"It's enough, Courfeyrac," Combeferre interceded before another quarrel could begin. He turned to Enjolras, his level stare boring into him with accusation. "Courfeyrac is right, Enjolras. You are acting foolishly. We have watched the two of you argue for months. Perhaps you should take a break. It appears as though you are under too much stress."

Enjolras wanted to fight back, and he was prepared to, but Combeferre had already premeditated it.

"Just for a few days, Enjolras," he urged him warningly. "Go and make things right." There was a look in his eye that told Enjolras he did not just mean his temper.

He did not want to walk out of the cafe in shame. A fallen leader, they would call him. Who would listen to him after this? But Combeferre was right, as he always was.

"I suppose I have made a mess of things, haven't I," he said quietly to Combeferre. Combeferre nodded.

"Go, Enjolras. It may not be too late. Go find her."

On the streets Enjolras searched wildly for Annette. She couldn't be gone yet; there were too many people to make much progress on the streets and it had been just moments since she'd disappeared.

He caught sight of her dark curls bobbing in the opposite direction, nearly round the corner, and he took off after her. Each time he was close she disappeared in the crowd again. Enjolras cursed to himself; above all days these streets had never been so busy. He could have sworn there were mysterious forces working against him.

Enjolras caught a flash of her blue dress and struggled against the crowd. He had to get to her, to tell her. He did not know why all of a sudden it felt so urgent; all he knew was that he had been containing something for far too long and had caused far too much hurt in the process.

He followed her all the way to the Luxembourg. He watched her stop at the willow tree and duck under its long, sweeping branches, a curtain of protection from the world. His heart pounding, Enjolras slowly pulled the branches apart, the branches rustling softly under his hands. Annette was seated on the ground, staring at the vast lake glittering in the sun.

"Are you here to remind me I am not welcome, Monsieur? Because that is not necessary. I left, and as you can see I wish to be left alone."

Enjolras sat next to her, hating the man he'd become. "I never should have said that. I never should have said any of that, Anne—Mademoiselle," Enjolras winced at his mistake. "—and I am truly sorry. Others have called me stony and unfeeling before, and now I can see they are right," he ended bitterly. How many times had Grantaire mocked him for having no interest in women, and the others laughed at him for his dedication to the cause?

Annette shook her head slowly, refusing to look at him. "I do not understand," she said quietly. Enjolras looked at her in confusion and slight fear.

"What?"

"Forgive me. I should have been more clear." Annette suddenly turned her brilliant blue eyes on him, her gaze fierce and passionate. Her voice rose as her passion grew. "You are very irregular, Monsieur, and I do not know where I stand with you. For example, why do I not call you by your name? Why are you 'monsieur' to me, and I 'Mademoiselle'? Why must we treat each other like strangers? Have we not had moments when—when—"

She broke off, lowering her eyes. Enjolras eagerly took her hand, pressing it in assurance. She looked up questioningly.

"Annette," he started slowly. Annette smiled slightly and nodded. "Annette, it was only time, you know. My parents made me cold to the world, and I was proud because I knew I was impenetrable." He paused. "For years I have told myself that my only priority should be the freedom of my countrymen. It's consumed me; do you not think others have told me I am too serious? Too obsessive?" Annette's eyes narrowed in suspicion.

"Really? I never would have guessed."

"But I've realized...if I am to fight for this world then I should be able to call it my own." He remembered Combeferre's words from a year ago. Annette looked at him in slight confusion. "What I mean is, I have realized I have other priorities now." Enjolras found himself unable to tear his eyes from Annette's. They burned with a zeal that was not unfamiliar. "Those priorities are you."

Annette smiled, that bright and overwhelming smile which took his breath away. Enjolras swallowed, trying to find his next words. Before he could, Annette spoke first.

"So am I still banished? Or shall we return together where we left off?"

Enjolras laughed a little in embarrassment. "Well, actually, Combeferre and Courfeyrac had _me _leave shortly after you did, so it appears we won't be seeing any more of them today."

Annette laughed loudly at this. "I should have known. Did it wound your pride to walk out like that?" Enjolras said nothing, slightly annoyed she could make light of such a thing.

"So, then, what will it be? Gabe, Gabie? Gabriel? I'm not sure what you prefer."

Enjolras winced, remembering the last person who'd used that ridiculous name. Then he thought of his parents. He didn't want his memories of them associated with Annette.

"Enjolras is fine," he told her with a smile.

"Alright then, Enjolras," Annette said, as though pleased with the sound. "I suppose I'll save Gabie for the use of Grantaire." She smirked, and Enjolras knew that he had never been this happy. He thought he could not have possibly been happier, when suddenly Annette was just inches away, her sweet breath on his. Her lips brushed his, and the kiss was electric and ecstatic and powerful.

When he broke away, Enjolras gently touched Annette's face. "Have I ever told you how beautiful you are?" He asked. Annette looked back, her eyes glittering with tears.

"Once," she said. "That seems years ago now."

The first few notes in a certain piece by Schubert played in Enjolras' head. He found himself humming as he watched Annette's smile widen.

"You remember," she whispered.

"It's a duet," Enjolras said. "It needs two people to work. We can work together, Annette. No more quarrels over nothing. When we're together, we can create beautiful music."

Annette rested her head against his shoulder. "All music comes to an end, some time," she whispered, holding his hand.

It was a long road to hell, and yet Eponine returned each night to walk it again. She often wondered what her life would be like if she hadn't been born into a family of murderers. Well, she'd never find out.

She had less than a year to save Annette, Azelma, and Gavroche. Not to mention finding a way to be rid of Blaise Vichy and his angry blonde girl once and for all, without being caught up in any blame herself. Eponine had had many dangerous missions, it was true; but this would be the worst of all of them.

As Eponine made her way through the dimly lit cobblestone streets she tried to think of ways she could tell Annette she was going to be murdered. How do you tell something like that to someone? And lately Annette had been happy, happier than she'd ever seen her. She suspected it was because of the prince. It seemed as though they were getting along now. There wouldn't be any more entertainment for her and Grantaire at the Musain, though. She owed him fifteen sous for the bet that the pair would reconcile. She hasn't thought it possible, but perhaps Grantaire knew them better.

Eponine took a deep breath and entered the dingy abandoned bakery where she was to meet the others.

Only her father was there, the others perhaps still on their way. Eponine stiffened at the sight of him. His weasel-like appearance and ruthlessness grew more acute over the years with poverty. She wondered how she could ever have once called this man "papa".

Thénardier looked up and smiled terribly. "A fine night for crime, eh, my girl? Wait'll you hear what Montparnasse has got. You'll be proud of your old fellow, that's right." His yellow, chipped teeth shone in the moonlight, further enhancing the sliminess of his features. Eponine ignored him, wondering vaguely where the others were.

Thénardier, it seemed, preferred to talk over silence. "You know, I never thought you had it in you, 'Ponine. You were always too thoughtful, not like Azelma. Remember what your mother used to tell you?" He laughed menacingly, and Eponine moved to the farthest corner of the room to get away. But his voice and his eyes still followed her.

"Kindness doesn't fill stomachs, mon cherie."

Eponine swallowed, trying to quell rising memories of her mother. They'd never been close, yet now that she was gone Eponine always felt she hadn't understood her well enough. The terrible way she'd died caused her pity, but the brutal reminder from her father put her back in her old perspective.

"And what does? Heartlessness? Murder? Theft?" Eponine turned on her father angrily. "It doesn't seem like you're doing too well for yourself anymore, _Father._."

Thénardier regarded her with vague surprise. "Now that's no way to speak to your old papa, now is it, girl?" He said as he rose. The space around Eponine felt too small, constricting. She could hear the mental warnings of her subconscious as Thénardier quickly filled the distance between them. She balled her fists, ready to fight him to escape. She was prepared, she was ready. This wouldn't be the first time.

He was just inches away, and she could see his hand touch his upper leg and withdraw a knife. He held it up to her face, observing the way it caught the light. Eponine stood still, watching his every move. He was toying with her, just like he used to. Trying to instill fear of him in her. Eponine slowly crept her hand down to her boot, where she kept her own weapon of defense. In one swift move she had her knife and his in her hands.

Thénardier stumbled back in surprise. "That's all, eh? See what a good killer you'll make. I always knew you wouldn't be the kind to hesitate." He grinned. His face was abhorrent to look at, and his jeering smile amplified her hatred of this man. Eponine turned away.

"Just you wait, little 'Ponine. You'll see soon enough, what the first kill's like, with—"

The door opened, and Blaise, Montparnasse, and the blonde girl entered. Thénardier quickly took his knife back and put it away, but Eponine kept hers in sight. A feeling told her she might need it tonight, judging by the scowls on the newcomers' faces.

"Rough day?" Eponine asked cheerfully, watching each of them carefully. Montparnasse was irritated, it looked. Blondie was furious, her little eyes slanted in a cold glare. Blaise was the least affected, from his outward appearance; his face was unusually calm, though a muscle in his jaw gave way to the occasional tense twitch.

"I wouldn't be so chipper if I were you, gamin," sneered Blondie. "What touches us touches you. Right, Blaise?"

"Blondie, hasn't your man got enough trouble on his hands? Being poor and desolate is a lot of work these days. You would know." Eponine flashed her an innocent smile. It was always nice to get under her nerves. It was the only power she had here.

"My name is Angeline," the girl huffed snootily. "Named after my grandmother, the Countess—"

"That's enough," Blaise curtly said. He stared Eponine down. She forced herself not to look away. "Thénardier, we have a problem."

Thénardier eagerly looked to Blaise. He was like one of those little dogs the rich women had, trying to find ways to always please his superiors to win a bone.

"It wouldn't be regarding the girl, would it?"

"What else would it be?" Blaise snapped. "She's gotten too close to Enjolras. We saw them at the Luxembourg again. Both are from high-class families, so it is reasonable to assume they're planning an engagement. We cannot have their marriage. It would be the end of everything for us."

Eponine felt a little bubble of hope rise in her chest. It looked like things weren't going so well for Blaise after all.

"What would you have me to do? These things do happen," Thénardier said nonchalantly. Blaise narrowed his eyes angrily.

"These things...do...happen?" He repeated softly. He looked around, his gaze sweeping over everyone with a chill. Thénardier cowered in his corner. "These things do _no_t happen!" Roared Blaise. "Not to us! Not after all of this planning." Blaise violently kicked a broken chair, sending its seat flying, very nearly hitting Eponine's head.

For the first time, Eponine began to fear Blaise and what he had in store.

"No. Here is what we are going to do. We are not going to wait till Annette is twenty-four to finish the job. We have to find a way to get her fortune earlier." Blaise turned to Eponine. "That's where you come in, my pet." He smiled grimly, his handsome face consumed with desperation. Yes, he was desperate. Even Eponine could see that. He was grasping at nothing, and he would lose his hold on his advantages soon enough.

"Oh?" Eponine said. Blaise's eyes bore into hers. He stepped toward her and grabbed her arm, his steely grip already forming bruises.

"Oh indeed. I'll trust you value yours and your siblings' lives enough to use that clever little head of yours to find a solution. And if you don't," Blaise said in all seriousness, leaning over her with his foul cabbage breath, "You'll pay. And trust me, girl, it won't be cheap. Unlike your father," he added as a last minute comment. Thénardier gave Blaise that rodent-like squint and Eponine tried not to laugh. So Blaise thought he was ahead of her again.

_Wrong._

For the first time in weeks, Eponine had never felt so in control. She knew just what she needed to do. She knew how to save everyone she cared about.

* * *

Eponine sprinted home, flying over the irregular cobblestones. She'd finally mastered running in the boots Annette had made her wear. It was odd, having shoes that fit. She didn't have to stop every few minutes because of blister forming on the soles of her bare feet.

Eponine pushed her aching legs, relieved to finally understand what to do for the first time. It had been pure and unadulterated misery waiting in suspense, not knowing what Blaise would do next. But it seemed she'd convinced him she could be relied on, and she held the power.

Her feet pounded the ground in a hard and fast rhythm, and soon the strain became too much. Eponine slowed to a stop, panting, and tried to regain her bearings. Almost there. She realized she was on the street where Combeferre had said he and Enjolras lived. She wondered what he was doing at that moment. _Probably sleeping. Or studying. Or reading. Maybe he and Enjolras went out. What if he's seeing a girl?_

Eponine dug her nails into her palms, forming bright red crescents in her hands. She had a mission. She had to stop getting distracted.

After one last gulp of air Eponine set off again, and in the shadows of the last light she paid no heed to a tall, shadowy figure in the dark. It was only when they collided that she realized her mission had been compromised. Severely. Slowly she raised her eyes and winced as she met the hard, dull eyes of the Police Inspector Javert.

"Excuse me, sir," she said quickly, ducking her head in hopes he wouldn't recognize her. To her surprise, he said nothing. Quickly she was on her way again. Only when she looked back did she wonder, what was he doing in beggars' clothing?

When she arrived Eponine hurriedly fumbled with the lock, _damn it to hell!_ Her fingers were slack and slippery with the sweat of the exercise, and when she finally opened the door she could have shouted for joy.

"Annette! Annette!" Eponine paused suddenly, noticing Annette's prostrate form on her bed. Was she _already_ asleep? It was only nine. Ridiculous. "Annette? Are you asleep?"

Annette said something muffled into her blankets. Eponine went and bent over her to hear better.

"What?"

"Go away, 'Ponine. Can you go to Madame Poisson's for the night?" Her voice was weak and quiet, and it sounded like she'd been crying. Immediately Eponine felt uncomfortable, as though she'd interrupted something. But what if she was sick? Or...had Enjolras done something? Though she was sure Annette wasn't the kind to cry herself to death over a broken heart.

"Why? What's wrong?"

"Please. I...I don't feel well. I just need to be alone for the night."

Eponine nodded reluctantly, still feeling as though something were wrong. Maybe she could wait one more night to tell Annette. It wasn't as though she ever got very much time to herself these days anyway. But Annette was wrong if she thought she'd stay in that stuffy old lady's apartment, even for a night. She'd rather sleep in a tree, or in a barn, like she'd used to.

With a wistful sigh Eponine remembered what she'd promised Combeferre. Not to put herself in dangerous situations. She could already hear him chastising her for the thought of sleeping outside. Though normally she'd never listen to any orders from anyone, Eponine still felt badly about the lies she told him about how she got hurt so frequently. Might as well do one decent thing.

"Alright. Do you want anything? Or any_one_?" She said suggestively with a grin. Annette said nothing. Eponine shrugged and left.

It was with great dread and discomfort that she swallowed her pride and banged the massive flamingo knockers on Madame Poisson's door.

* * *

Annette lay on her bed certain that this was the night she was going to die.

She hadn't been able to move from her bed at all that day. Yet she hadn't slept either. She'd been trapped in a half sleep, and felt the world around her through a haze. She should have known she didn't have so much time left; she saw her body shrink each day, and every hour she was plagued by coughing that grew more and more violent. Where once she would have been happy to feel her waist neatly controlled by her corset, now she was terrified. She lived in constant fear that someone might say something about it. Annette remembered how terrified she'd been to tell Courfeyrac. It had been two years and she still hadn't gathered the courage. She was a coward.

_A coward. A coward. A filthy, rotten coward_. The word repeated itself over and over in Annette's brain and she suddenly longed to be rid of the secret. _Tell Eponine_, her mind told her frantically. But she'd sent her away. She had no one.

Annette did wake up, and for a terrifying moment she thought she'd died. Her vision was blurred and dark, and she felt nothing in her limbs. Then a wave of relief washed over her when she felt the usual ache in her lungs. Slowly she sat up, her head throbbing. She'd be seeing Enjolras at lunch today. She smiled at the thought, and hurriedly dressed. For the time being she forgot about last night's difficulties. She could go on a little bit longer, so what was the point of having everyone worry?

As she dressed Annette remembered the scene at the Luxembourg a few weeks ago with a smile. For the first time she thought she might really like this man, with all his insistence of turning everything into a debate. This one had to be right, he just had to. Annette pulled her hair into a loose knot on her head; it was all she could manage without her arms tiring.

Eponine came in, with a fierce scowl on her face.

"Hope you're happy. I haven't gotten a blink of sleep all night. The old woman snores like a bear." She rubbed her face tiredly, noting Annette's unusually dressed up self.

"Are we going somewhere?"

"I'm meeting the boys for lunch," Annette said. "I thought Combeferre invited you already."

"He did," Eponine said defensively. "I just forgot."

"Well, hurry up and get dressed."

As Eponine changed, Annette sat on her bed in thought. She just wanted one day to be happy, without anything or anyone destroying it. _Please_, she thought. _Just this once._

As if on cue, she had a burst of coughing, to which she rapidly pulled out her handkerchief. Eponine called from behind her curtain, "Are you alright? You sound like you're dying."

Annette didn't know whether to laugh or to cry.

Eponine came out, wearing Annette's blue muslin dress. On Annette it had grown childish, but somehow it matured Eponine's body. The short puffy sleeves just barely fell off her shoulders, and the dark sash around her waist added an elegant simplicity. Annette was surprised to see Eponine's transformation over the months. Where once she had been deathly thin, she'd gained weight, though not too much, to fill out in most places. Her face had softened around her mouth and eyes, and she looked her age. She still had that gruff way of speaking, and her face couldn't be called beautiful, at least by the usual standards, but she did carry a strange new beauty about her.

"Enjoying the shoes?" Annette noted with a grin, that the pair of shoes Eponine had refused to wear were now visible underneath her petticoat. Eponine stuck her tongue out teasingly.

"Let's go. I told Combeferre I'd—" her eyes suddenly widened. "Annette, I have to tell you something."

Annette looked at the clock. "Can it wait after lunch?"

Eponine hesitated. Then she shook her head. "Let's have fun for once. I'll tell you later."

Annette nodded and they set out, arm in arm. Éponine chatted about the book she and Combeferre were reading, the show she and Combeferre had seen at the theater, the moth specimens Combeferre had shown her. She never once seemed to realize her happy chatter was centered around one single person. Annette gave her a smile, and when Éponine paused for breath, teased her lightly.

"Do you discuss shoe laces as well?"

Eponine stopped. "What'd you mean by that?" She asked as though completely indifferent and genuinely curious. Annette wondered if she were playing.

"It's just that these days, I hear a lot about the things you and Combeferre do together. That's all."

"So what if we do? I don't make fun of your talk of your friends." Eponine frowned. _She denies her own feelings_, Annette thought with amusement.

"Don't waste time, Eponine," Annette said seriously. "If you're still remembering Marius, you have to let him go."

Eponine said nothing. They entered the Corinthe, where for once Annette would be eating and not working. They saw Combeferre, Enjolras, and Courfeyrac already seated at a large table.

Enjolras smiled at her, causing her stomach to flip in excitement. He really did look beautiful when he smiled.

"You do know the food here is awful, at best?" Annette said to Courfeyrac. "Why you must always insist on coming here is beyond me."

"Don't you work here?" Courfeyrac asked, laughing.

"Even Madame Hucheloup knows. She's always shocked when she gets you to get so much food. She told me there must be something wrong with your head."

The others laughed. Courfeyrac shook his head in annoyance. "It's out of loyalty, Annie. Old Monsieur Hucheloup was a fine fellow, and his cooking even finer. His secrets died with him, though," he added, eyeing the grey soggy piece of fish on a neighboring table.

Annette sat consciously next to Enjolras, smiling uncontrollably. Under the table she felt his hand take hers and give it a squeeze, then it fell away. Annette didn't even notice when Courfeyrac spoke.

"What do you have to smile about? It appears as though I am a burden on you for not having a girl with me. Now it is only the two of you. I don't think it very fair, by the way."

Annette's head snapped up, catching the last sentence. "You never do."

Eponine looked to Annette nervously, clearly anxious about his comment. Annette gave Combeferre a sideways glance. He seemed unaffected, though surely he knew what Courfeyrac was implying. As for her and Enjolras, his should he know of anything?

"Alright, let's eat," Enjolras said at last, to break the tension. Annette laughed a little at the others reaction.

"It's best for you to keep your jokes for later, Etienne. I don't think Eponine is yet used to your...teasing." Combeferre suggested drily, a small smile on his lips. Courfeyrac hung his head.

They ordered food and ate happily, laughing and talking merrily about each other, about ridiculous and meaningless things, and then about the most important things. Annette couldn't help but grin broadly whenever she and Enjolras exchanged that look; that look between them that meant, _yes, finally we are together. Finally we are free of expectations and murderous people from our pasts._

When Enjolras eventually fell into an inevitable debate with Combeferre, Courfeyrac leaned towards her and said softly, "You seem happy, Annie."

Just that. Nothing more, just those simple words, honest and simple and teasing and full of questions. When Annette looked into Courfeyrac's eyes she smiled because of course he knew, he always did. This was one thing she could never hide.

When Annette rose, an insignificant, sharp pain in her chest stopped her. It dig into her like something sharp. _Something I ate,_ Annette told herself, ignoring the still full plate of hers on the table. The feeling passed. All was well.

Annette noticed Eponine was unusually quiet. Normally she'd be talking of something, no matter how small it was. She remembered she'd had something important to tell her.

The cozy little group wandered the chilly streets of Paris for a time, sometimes splitting up. They lost Combeferre and Eponine to a secondhand bookstore along the way, and Courfeyrac would see something—or someone—to keep him occupied. Conveniently Annette and Enjolras would be left alone together, both shy yet confident. Both felt themselves to have reached the heights of their passions, when really they had scarcely scratched the surface. They would soon know the real meaning of love. Love is not infatuation or attraction. Love is not always passion and excitement. Sometimes love is seeing the person at their very worst, knowing them inside and out. It is not necessarily all happiness, but that is not to say it is not right.

* * *

Eponine discovered there were two kinds of book buyers.

Some entered with the always assuring confidence of knowing exactly which books they wanted. There was no inner turmoil and conflict on budgeting, or wasted hours searching and never finding. Once having paid for their products they were once again on their way to complete their errands.

The others were drawn to the shops quite by accident. They never knew exactly how they had ended up browsing for several hours in a musty old shop, having spent the money reserved for their dinner on two dozen books on the most varied subjects and ideas.

Combeferre was the latter. Eponine was most certainly the former. A quarter of an hour into their browsing her bored sighs and wandering thoughts became increasing occurrences. As she half-heartedly fingered the worn and dusty spines of gothic novels she frankly did not give a damn about, Eponine's eyes wandered frequently to Combeferre. Where she was inattentive and restless, she had never seen him so excited. As his eyes moved back and forth rapidly over the titles on the spines his eyes would light up when they had settled on the right book. A kind of smile would show, not on his lips, not even anywhere on the outside, but just a strange glow that was expressed in his voice and his movements.

"Look, Eponine, it's remarkable! A first-edition copy—do you know the historical value of this? I cannot believe—"

"Have I shown you this one yet? I believe I mentioned it last week—Yes, yes, you're right. We'll get through the Shakespeare before we touch Robespierre."

Often she heard him speak in low tones, not even to her, but to himself. His careful studied comments and tidbits of phrases represented the little arguments and conflicts he seemed to be having with himself.

"Yes—no, that can't be right. He was born in 1324, not 21."

"Meaning..._esse est percipium_? Wrong declension. Was it the second or third?"

"If I get the philosophies and the novels...carrying thirty pounds for the next few hours...will they mind if I drop them off at home first?"

Eponine watched him. She'd long ago retired to a beaten old blue chair with stains and claw marks that indicated the presence of some animal. She found herself smiling at the way his intelligent eyes squinted at the books as though he were annoyed personally by them; the odd furrow of his brow when he was deep in thought; the gleam of his spectacles in the fading light; and that subtle shake of his head when he found a mistake in grammar, punctuation, or facts. She didn't care whether she were trapped in this mildewy shop for the rest of her life if it meant sharing in his excitements.

After a time, Combeferre suddenly looked up in embarrassment. He glanced outside, noting the sun sinking steadily on the horizon. He turned to Eponine apologetically.

"Really, you could have said you wanted to leave any time, Eponine. I am sorry to have kept you waiting for me."

"Ah, why bother? I have wondered what it would be like seeing you in your natural environment. It is odd, seeing you get so excited about Robespierre and Descartes."

Combeferre smiled. "I didn't know you knew Descartes."

"I think I have been around you for far too long, is the problem."

Combeferre laughed as he paid for his stack of books. As they walked out of the shop Eponine noticed his rueful glance over his shoulder at the pile of books he'd decided against purchasing for the time being. She gave him a comforting pat on the back and offered to carry some of his books for him. They walked in silence for a while on the quiet streets.

Then, Eponine remarked, "I hope the others remember where to meet us. It wouldn't surprise me if instead of coming Courfeyrac took Annette to see the circus again."

"I very much doubt Courfeyrac would hang around Annette and Enjolras for very long," Combeferre said. Eponine gave him a questioning look.

"Haven't you seen the pair of them lately? For the first time in months they get along, even better, they seem to be almost friends."

"Oh!" Eponine realized what he was talking about. "Well obviously they're in love. At least Annette is, though she never tells me anything. You can tell, though. I would be surprised if Courfeyrac were happy about that arrangement."

"Courfeyrac's been trying to arrange it for quite some time," answered Combeferre. "He's tried many times to get them alone together, but I do believe he really just wanted to see a debate. Between the two of them, you are always guaranteed some entertainment and enrichment."

As Eponine thought about Annette and Enjolras, she wished for someone to call her own. It seemed Annette was getting a happy ending with her prince, so why shouldn't she get hers? Eponine had read enough books by now to know that eventually, Marius was supposed to return for her after realizing his beautiful princess was not enough. He needed something, someone, more.

As she so said in her mind, her hands slipped and she dropped a couple of Combeferre's books. She stopped, and Eponine and Combeferre both bent at the same time to pick them up. When their hands brushed over a copy of something about Socrates, their eyes met. It was a strangely intimate moment, and just then Eponine forgot about what she'd been thinking of. She was thinking of how awfully close Combeferre's face was to hers, and how soft his lips looked, how his whole person exuded a radiant warmth she wished she could have. Then he leaned in closer, just seconds away from...

Eponine pulled away sharply, startled. Combeferre drew back and they stood up.

"Eponine..."

Eponine sharply looked away, a slow bubbling anger seething in her. She knew how close they had just been, and she had stopped them just on time. Why couldn't things have just stayed the way they were? He should know better; Marius would come around one day. She had to save her love for him.

She felt Combeferre's hand on her shoulder, and for a fleeting moment looked at him.

"I'm sorry," he said. And he truly seemed to be. He could scarcely look at her, his usually steady gaze appearing difficult to maintain. "I thought you would not be averse to..."

"Why would you do that? Why?" Eponine knew she sounded bitter and terrible, but she couldn't help the words that flew out of her mouth.

"I believe I am in love with you," Combeferre remarked. He said it so frankly that Eponine thought she would fall over. Was he delusional?

"You should know better," she retorted. "Men like you do not end up with girls like me."

"And why not? What do you think is separating us? There is nothing, Eponine, nothing at all. We are only as free to choose as we wish to be."

"You know what I'm talking about," Eponine thundered. "Rich university students marry little bourgeois princesses, not gamins they meet on the street." In truth, she had never even considered this factor at all, but when it came out she suddenly wondered, where did that put her with Marius?

"I know you do not think like that, Eponine. Tell me what it really is, please." The last note in his voice was odd; she'd never heard anything like it from him before.

Eponine looked away. She couldn't tell him about Marius. She wouldn't. It wouldn't be kind, she at least knew that. What was she supposed to say? A lump formed in her throat as she felt the warm friendship she'd shared with Combeferre for so long slip away. A part of her wanted to look at him, hold his hand, tease him and laugh with him, read books with him...

_No I do not_, Eponine told herself angrily, fighting a rising blush.

"I know you have had a hard life, Eponine, and I want to give you something more. In a few years I can practice medicine independently, and we can mar—"

"I'm in love with Marius," Eponine interrupted coldly, before he could finish that dreaded word. She hated herself for it. Combeferre's expression stabbed a hole in her heart, widening a void that had already been sitting there for far too long.

"Pontmercy?" Combeferre's voice was once again level and calm. He ran a weary hand through his dark blonde hair. Eponine tried to look away.

"Yes."

Combeferre nodded briskly. "Right. Let's find the others." As they walked he kept talking about the books he'd gotten, as though nothing irregular had just happened. Eponine tried to keep herself attentive; he was being kind and sparing her from any awkwardness that would've happened otherwise. It was his way; he was always thinking of others, even when he had just been hurt.

They found Courfeyrac, Annette, and Enjolras squeezed together on a bench outside the flower shop. Annette was asleep, her head resting on Courfeyrac's shoulder. Enjolras stood up at the sight of them.

"Did you find the articles I told you about? You've been gone a while."

Combeferre said nothing and shook his head. Enjolras looked briefly to Eponine, then dismissed whatever thought was in his head.

Courfeyrac gently nudged Annette from her sleep. She raised her head and looked around.

"Oh no," she said tiredly, "I fell asleep? And you let me? We've been sitting here since—" she let out a tired laugh. Courfeyrac elbowed her.

"You looked like you needed it. Besides, it's actually only been a quarter of an hour."

"We should go," Combeferre said. "We've got classes tomorrow, Courfeyrac." Courfeyrac groaned angrily and stood, helping Annette up. Eponine noticed Annette wince as though from some injury. _She must be tired from the walking, _she thought luninterestedly. _She's always so tired from everything these days. No wonder she fell asleep._

They walked quickly, the men in front and Eponine and Annette trailing behind. Eponine talked, because she didn't feel like hearing Annette ask her about the walk. She didn't want to be teased and poked and made fun of. She was the one who'd had a trying day. She didn't need her ruining it.

They were nearly home when Eponine's heart dropped in her chest and she yelled.

The others called to her, asking what was wrong as they made their way back.

"Annette's collapsed! There's something wrong with her!"

* * *

One moment Annette had been listening to Eponine ramble about Socrates and Descartes (why? It must have been something she and Combeferre had discussed. But she spoke about it rather angrily.), and the next she was touching the cold wet ground.

It was the most terrifying thing she had ever felt.

Her vision blurred for a moment, as it sometimes did when she was tired, and Annette was weary. Her head felt like it would float away from the rest of her body, and she clumsily stumbled in her steps. She had no control of her body anymore. She would fall. And no one would catch her.

Courfeyrac always teased her for being dramatic, but in all nearly twenty-three years of her life Annette had never fainted or had a hysterical fit. She'd always been enraged by the men who would warn and mock her, telling her not to get too emotional or they would have to fetch the smelling salts, or better yet send her to the asylum. No, she had never fainted, and rather fancied it was like going to sleep.

Fainting was not like going to sleep. The gradual drowsiness and warmth and comfort of sleep was not present. When you fell asleep, it seemed as though you closed your eyes and the next moment you were waking up.

Instead, her dizziness and lack of coordination increased, and for a split second Annette had the feeling of being about to fall, as a tree does when there is nothing tying it to its severed stump any longer. A bright flash of white, and she vaguely felt a searing pain as her head met the ground. Then it all went dark.

* * *

The world seemed to slow as Enjolras turned back with Courfeyrac and Combeferre to see Eponine crouched on the ground, shouting at the top of her lungs. At first he'd thought they were being robbed, or worse. So when Enjolras was able to confirm the emptiness of the streets, he was relieved. Then he'd realized who was on the ground.

"What's happened?" Courfeyrac was already by Annette's side, looking to Combeferre. Annette was deathly pale, so white Enjolras might have thought she were dead, were it not for the slight rise and fall of her chest. Enjolras stood, frozen, watching Combeferre feel her wrist for a pulse.

"She needs to see a doctor. Your apartment is not far?" He asked Eponine.

Eponine nodded, appearing distressed and slightly afraid. "Just around the corner from here."

"I'll take her," Enjolras said automatically, but was stopped by the distress on Courfeyrac's face.

"Be careful."

He nodded and gently scooped Annette into his arms, holding her bridal style, and they walked the remaining distance to the apartment. When they entered, the old landlady stared at them in shock.

"No good ever comes from you coming here, Monsieur, none indeed! Why, I—"

"So sorry, Madame," Courfeyrac said hastily as they pushed past her up the stairs. Eponine fumbled with the key for an agonizingly long minute, then they entered. The cozy room was cold with no fire, and the September breeze blowing from the open window. Eponine quickly shut it and began lighting the fireplace. Enjolras set Annette down on the nearest bed, lingering a moment in worry to see if maybe she'd woken up. Her still face was tragically beautiful in the dim light, and it took all of his strength for Enjolras to step away. It suddenly struck him as odd. Hadn't this happened before?

Combeferre checked her pulse again, and positioned her head on the pillows. "I'll fetch one of the doctors from the hospital. Dr. Boucher will be home." He stopped, then looked to Eponine. "Loosen her corset up and elevate her feet. It may not be as serious as it looks." With that, he left.

Eponine glared at Courfeyrac and Enjolras, her eyes wet and angry. "Well, leave! What do you need to hang around for?"

Courfeyrac opened his mouth angrily to answer back, but Enjolras took his arm and murmured, "Leave her be. Remember what Combeferre said? Give her privacy."

Courfeyrac turned red and nodded. "We'll be outside," he told Eponine.

In the hall Enjolras paced anxiously. Two years ago. Two years ago, on a night just like this, Annette had been ill._ He'd_ taken her home safely, though she kept insisting it was nothing. What was wrong with her? Would she die? He swallowed, trying to focus on other things. She would be alright. Combeferre would know what to do. So would that doctor.

"Cease the pacing, _mon ami_," Courfeyrac said. "You will drive me mad with it. What right have you to worry so much? I am her brother." His words in any other circumstances would have been light and teasing, but now they were sincere.

Enjolras sighed and sank to the floor. Courfeyrac sat next to him. They stared at the wall, the two who perhaps loved Annette most.

"It has happened before, you know," Enjolras finally said. Courfeyrac looked at him sharply.

"What are you talking about?"

Enjolras related the events of two years ago, barely a week after he'd met Annette. Courfeyrac cursed silently.

"She said she kept no secrets from me! And after I told her about the Leroux girl! I—" he stopped, resting his head on his hands. "She's my _sister_, Enjolras. What would I do without her?"

Enjolras wondered the same thing as he stared at the splintered banister above his head. For the first time in his life the revolution wasn't the only thing driving him and motivating him. He understood, now what some people fought for. Not all saw the big picture like him, the equality and the justice and the freedom of men. Some saw the laugh and the teasing touch of a lively girl, the fiery temper of one who would tell him his mistakes as she saw them, who would help him do what was right. Enjolras believed it now, much as he despised others who did so too. He could leave poetry to Jehan.

After what seemed to him to be hours, they heard the quick steps of Combeferre coming up the stairs, as well as the heavier, slower ones of another. Combeferre appeared with a short, heavy man with bushy whiskers and beady black eyes, his appearance reminiscent of a mouse.

"What are you doing?" Combeferre asked as he let the man in the room. Enjolras and Courfeyrac stood up.

"Eponine threw us out."

Combeferre smiled a tiny bit. "Well, we'll see what's wrong." He looked at the pair in front of him. "You should stay outside. Perhaps you should go home."

Enjolras shook his head as Courfeyrac protested violently. Combeferre shook his head. "Fine, then. It may be a while."

Enjolras and Courfeyrac silently sat down again, not caring they had classes the next day. Combeferre disappeared inside and shut the door, leaving them once again in the near darkness.

They waited several hours, and eventually Courfeyrac nodded off to sleep. Enjolras remained still, silent, thinking. Finally, the bushy mouse-man opened the door, his bushy face peeking through. He stepped out, indicating to Enjolras to stand up. Enjolras rose, quickly shaking Courfeyrac.

The man introduced himself. "She is your sister?" He asked, looking vaguely between Enjolras and Courfeyrac. Courfeyrac nodded.

"She's mine."

"Well, my boy, you can go home for the night. Auguste can tell you more." He nodded goodbye and departed. Enjolras stared at his disappearing figure in disbelief. _How is Annette?_ He would have asked. But he was gone. Angrily Enjolras pushed the door open, about to enter, when Combeferre came out. His face was weary and drawn, in his waistcoat with his shirtsleeves rolled up. He blocked either of them from entering.

"She woke up a while ago, only for a few minutes. But she does not want to see either of you right now. Wait a while." His words were tired and slow, and Enjolras' heart thudded in fear.

"What's wrong with her?" He asked. Combeferre rubbed the bridge of his nose and didn't respond for a long while. Seeing the look Courfeyrac gave him, he finally responded.

"She has consumption. She's had it for quite a while now. I'll stay with her and Eponine for the night, as she needs to be watched. Good night." He gave Courfeyrac's shoulder a squeeze before he closed the door on them a third time.

Enjolras and Courfeyrac went home quietly. When they parted ways, Enjolras noticed the ragged breathing of Courfeyrac. Had he been crying? He said nothing of it. For there were visible on his own cheeks the shiny trail that tears make.

* * *

Eponine stared at the floor, hating the world for going so wrong all at once. What if Annette died this very night? What would she have left? The idea of her sickness frightened Eponine; she still remembered the terrible way her mother had died, cruel though she had been. Alone in prison, sick with hunger and fatigue. Was it really any worse than this?

She sat on the worn armchair she'd pulled near Annette's bed, watching the slight rise and fall of Annette's chest. The past few hours were a blur to her: it had been the smell of alcohol, the sight of blood, and the raspy cough of Annette. Now Annette lay, small and weak, in nothing but her chemise.

Combeferre sat down on a chair on the opposite side of the bed. "You don't have to stay up," he told her, not meeting her eyes. Eponine saw he was half-asleep on his feet. A stab of guilt shot through her chest as she saw the trials he must be facing, what he must be feeling.

"Go to sleep. I'll watch her. You're the one who knows about medicine anyway, so you need to be awake later."

Combeferre looked up at her. "Will you wake me if something happens?" He asked dubiously. Eponine nodded, standing to find him a blanket. After rummaging in the closets she tossed him a blanket.

"Thank you, Eponine."

She didn't look at him, but she nodded and knew he was watching her. After a minute she finally got the nerve to tell him what she'd been meaning to say for a long while.

"Auguste...I'm sorry."

She looked at him hesitantly, then sighed. He had already fallen asleep. When she turned her head away she didn't see Combeferre open his eyes to look at her one last time before falling asleep.

* * *

_When Annette opened her eyes, the sight that she woke up to made her wish she never had._

_Bodies littered the floor, blocking all exits and any hopes of escape. Blood pooled into the deep cracks in the wood from the ceiling, dripping in a slow and steady rhythm. She stood on her bed, her island of comfort and safety, until it disappeared from beneath her feet and she was standing ankle-deep in blood. A scream dried up in her throat when she saw the dead, bloated body of Courfeyrac floating past her. Then she recognized the rest of the faces around her; Eponine, Combeferre, Bahorel, Joly, Bossuet, Jehan, Feuilly, Grantaire._

_Her heart seemed to stop completely when she realized one was missing. She shuddered, her head spinning, yet everything so clear and focused at once, when she saw him._

_He stood still and perfect and unharmed in front of her, his appearance somehow fresh and unscathed. Annette wanted to run to him, run away from all this death, when she saw the red bleeding hole in his chest. Right where his heart should be._

_"You left us. You weren't there," Enjolras said accusingly, staring at her with sad eyes. Annette opened her mouth, terrified, wanting to say something._

I never left. I never left!_ She thought over and over again, forgetting everything but this terrible new reality. She—_

"Annette! Annette, are you alright?" Annette woke up with a wheezing gasp, clinging to whoever it was sitting next to her. _Eponine._

She cried into her shoulder, shaking and sweating from the terrible dream. Eponine clutched her almost as tightly as Annette did, whispering something inaudibly over and over again. Annette felt as though she were falling, and needed something to ground her to the world. When she heard another voice in the room she started and pulled away, thinking this was just another dream, with more corpses and faces to haunt her. She saw a small flame appear and blaze, filling the room with a dim glow.

Combeferre held a candle, and suddenly Annette remembered. Lunch, the walk, falling asleep on the bench, falling on the ground, a bushy haired man with a mustache and Combeferre leaning over her, pressing things to her forehead. She looked away, mortified at the events. It was impossible to hide any longer. Her secret was out.

Eponine got up, returning with a glass of water for Annette. Silently Annette took it, and though she tried to keep her hands steady, she splashed a good portion onto the sheets.

"How long has this been going on for?" Combeferre asked tiredly, rubbing his temple. Annette didn't answer, choosing instead to stare down at her hands.

"Why didn't you tell Courfeyrac?"

"You know why."

"I do not. You did not need to put yourself in harm's way because you were afraid, Annette."

She didn't respond, and set the glass down on the floor. Her head was dizzy with something strange and unfamiliar, and she had to blink to keep herself awake.

"Dr. Bouchard gave you laudanum to sleep. You ought to stay in bed the rest of the day, and eat as much as you can." Combeferrre took her hand and felt her pulse. "Don't go to work or meetings or anything the rest of the week. Don't even leave your room. And, Annette," he added seriously, the candle casting long shadows on his face, "talk to him. Talk to someone, anyone. You shouldn't keep it all to yourself until it's too late."

Annette nodded tiredly, her eyelids heavy and drooping. She did not know how exactly she was tucked back under the covers only to fall asleep once more.

—

Annette was reading _Sense and Sensibility_ when the knock at the door came. Without a second thought she jumped to open it. It was probably Jehan, coming to retrieve his poetry book from the night before. He'd thought it would make her feel better. She needed company anyway.

She opened the door, then immediately closed it again. She stared at the closed door in shock, unable to comprehend what she'd just seen. Then she opened it again, to make sure this wasn't another nightmare.

But it was real. Her _father._ Tall, silver hair, thick spectacles, permanent frown, mold on his right cheek. It was him.

Before she could close the door again he put his hand out and walked into the room. Annette suddenly noticed Courfeyrac behind him, and hoped against all hopes that this was not an intervention.

The two Courfeyracs sat down in the armchairs. Her father looked around dubiously with a critical eye, taking in the tasteless furniture and disgraceful books lining her shelves. He shook his head silently, knowing full well Annette saw the gesture.

"What are you doing here?"

"Paying you a visit," her father replied. "Courfeyrac told me you are not well."

Annette laughed drily, sending murderous glares to Courfeyrac. "I am well. Would it take me being on my deathbed for you to come over?"

He was silent. Then, after a pause, "I understand we have not always gotten along, Annette, but it is time for you to quit this foolishness."

Annette clenched her fists, trying to get herself to calm down. "What do you mean? What foolishness am I exhibiting?"

"You know what. This. Living here, working at a cafe, hanging around Courfeyrac's friends. It's a disgrace, and you should not be doing it now in your condition."

"And what's my condition?" Annette challenged. Would he take it further, would he really dare to go there?

"Dying." He said it calmly, and, though Annette would never recognize it in his voice, _sadly_.

Annette could not even look at either of them anymore. She would not.

"I am sorry, but I do not tolerate visitors who come to insult me. Have you come with a purpose?"

He gave her a warning look. "Listen to me, Annette, I am still your father. I decide what is best for you. You are coming home with me, as of right now. We will get proper doctors and take you to the country for the winter and spring, and if you're well by then we'll move to England. What you need is a change in scenery." Again, he made a small gesture with his hand around the apartment, showing just what he would change.

"I am not going anywhere. I will see none of your doctors, and I am neither going to the country nor to England." Annette longed to take one of Courfeyrac's bouncing curls and give it a good tug. He had said nothing so far, but even so she found him guilty.

"You will do as I say! What have I done to make you hate me so, Annette? I put food on the table, a roof over your head! And what do I get? Insolence and disrespect."

"I do not hate you," Annette said automatically, a twinge of guilt already poking at her. Then she remembered, this was what he said every time to win. He made her feel guilty, and gave her that sad, forlorn look as though he were all alone in the world. Well, it wouldn't work this time.

"Then why do you treat me like this?"

"Because for more than fifteen _years_ you made me feel inferior to everybody!" Annette burst. "You always reminded me how kind you were to have taken me in, even after your wife died, to have kept me still. If I was not the perfect daughter, fluent in Latin and Italian, able to paint with watercolors like the other girls, accomplished on the piano, thin enough to wear the dresses Madame Chiry made for the balls—you made sure I knew it. I do not want that life, having to attract suitors to have worth. I would rather work for whatever I earn, like everyone else must do. Have you seen what is going on in the streets? People are killing each other for survival, and we—" Annette couldn't go on any longer. Out of breath, she was seized with coughing, and it wasn't for a long while till she regained her composure.

Monsieur de Courfeyrac stared at her in surprise, a whirl of emotions visible on his face. He twisted his hat in his hand, and for a while, was completely silent.

"I want you to come home, Annette." Annette sensed this was his last plea, and he would not argue further. She regarded him for a while, sitting in her chair. He seemed old, older than she'd ever seen him, older than he should look for his age. He seemed lonely.

"You are the one who sent me away." Her words hung still in the air as Monsieur de Courfeyrac lifted his face to her. Why must he look so sad? It made her feel worse, and less sure. What if he really did want her this time?

Monsieur de Courfeyrac stood up. He took a final look around her apartment, as if trying to imprint the horrors in his mind, and nodded to Annette.

"Good day, Annette. I hope this life you choose can please you. I will come back soon, to see if you've changed your mind," he added, his gaze steady.

Annette did not waver. "I will not. Farewell, Father."

Monsieur de Courfeyrac winced at her coldness, perhaps remembering the days she'd called him "papa."

"Good-bye."

He turned and left, closing the door firmly. After a few seconds Annette turned to Courfeyrac angrily.

"Why would you—you know I—we—" she started crying. Courfeyrac quickly stood and moved to her.

"It's only right, Annie, even that. Would you hide it from him like you did from me?" He let out a bitter laugh. "It's not right, Annie. We're supposed to tell each other everything." With a sigh he hugged her close. Annette stopped crying and pressed herself tightly to him.

"I bet Enjolras would be envious to see us now," Courfeyrac said sweetly. Annette didn't speak, but planned on telling his mistress, some interesting facts about Courfeyrac's love life.

"By the way, he's been wanting to see you. Give the poor boy a chance, won't you? I can confirm you are the first and only girl he's ever cared about, or even acknowledged for that matter. A waste, I'd say, with that face, but—" Annette looked up at him, knocking his chin with her head. Courfeyrac flinched.

"You've done your brotherly duties well enough. I suppose you have places to be?" She pulled away, crossing her arms over her chest to replace the sudden lack of warmth.

Courfeyrac shook his head cheerfully, then his face fell. "Actually, I do. Bahorel and Bossuet are meeting me in a bit." He paused. "Should I tell Enjolras not to bother visiting?"

He was testing her. But she did want to see Enjolras, awkward as it may be. And since she wasn't really going anywhere for another few days, what else did she have to do? That was what she told herself. It would be fine, right? She had to see him at some point.

"Tell him whatever you want, I do not care," she said, attempting a casual tone. Courfeyrac grinned and patted her head.

"Yes, I'm sure you don't. Well, I'm off." He have her an exaggerated bow and tip of the hat and left.

Annette collapsed into a chair, deep in thought. Would her father come again? Did he really mean what he had said? He must have. Removed and cold though he'd been in the past, he had never lied to her. It almost saddened her to know without a doubt she would not go back to him. She wanted to be able to get on with him, yes, but not if it meant losing all of what she'd been building for the past couple of years.

It wasn't long before she heard another knock at the door. Annette lingered in her chair a moment. Could Enjolras really be here so soon?

It seemed he could. He was a little breathless and red in the cheeks, and his cravat had been hastily tied. But he was here.

"Hello," he said awkwardly, a little flustered. Annette gave him a little smile and let him in.

"You were quick," she said to fill the silence.

Enjolras sat down across from her, his feet tapping out a nervous beat. Annette suddenly regretted everything. The tension was unbearable.

"You wouldn't see me," Enjolras replied questioningly.

Annette looked down. "I didn't need you to see me like that, Enjolras. Anyway, I'm fine now, so what does it matter?" She painfully forced a smile, trying to assure him.

Enjolras shook his head. "Do not say that. I know you're not, Annette. You don't have to explain."

So he knew. He knew everything.

"What now, then?"

"What do you mean?" Enjolras asked confusedly. Annette tried not to cry. Surely he must know; was he really going to make her say it?

"You know what. I am a bomb waiting to go off. At best I'll live through the winter. So what is the point of this, of...of us? I'm sure you can find many better ways to spend your time." Annette's cheeks burned red, she knew, and she looked away.

"Annette," Enjolras said softly, "I am not leaving you. Maybe you don't have forever, but none of us do." He paused, as if trying to formulate more words. "You really ought to go to Combeferre if you want wise and inspiring words," he said, laughing nervously, "all I can say is..."

Annette held her breath, and dared to look at him. He was hesitant all of a sudden, almost shy. It was unlike him.

"I think...I love you."

Annette slowly took one of his hands in hers.

"I know I love you."

Enjolras smiled. "Good grief, I would be scorning anyone else, Courfeyrac, Joly, Bossuet, if they talked like this."

"I suppose we should stop now then, before we turn into those ridiculous love-birds we've seen at the Luxembourg," Annette joked.

Enjolras nodded. "I beg of you, do not call me your _calinours_* or _chaton_.*"

"But they suit you so well!"

They spent a while more joking and poking fun at each other, when Annette asked the question she'd asked Courfeyrac.

"Don't you have somewhere to be? I'm sure you are busy with the meetings at the cafe, and the revolution and whatnot."

Enjolras shook his head with a small smile. "I do not need to be anywhere but here."

Annette was content. After a while, Enjolras noticed the chess board on Eponine's bed. Combeferre must have left it behind a while ago. He walked over and picked it up.

"How about a round, Mademoiselle?"

Annette laughed, her eyes never leaving the chess board. "I must decline, my good sir."

"Why?"

"I...I never learned to play," Annette said quickly. Enjolras shrugged.

"I can show you. It isn't too difficult once you understand."

He set the board on the table between them. He spent the next half hour telling her what went where, what it did, and the rules of the game. Annette admittedly didn't listen very much, but she watched as he grew animated as he spoke.

They played a while, and Annette was sure to make a couple of mistakes along the way, even if it were just to keep Enjolras talking. As the game progressed, however, she found herself getting deeply invested and she stopped. Whenever she captured one of his players she'd feign surprise and say,

"Hmm, seems like you've lost your luck today."

Then Enjolras went on a tangent about how there was no such thing as luck, and it was a sorry excuse by people who either valued nothing they did or had no motivation to do anything.

Annette carefully moved her knight several spaces and captured his bishop. Enjolras stared at her, dumbfounded. As the game progressed and she kept taking his players, Enjolras gave her a suspicious look.

"It seems to me you may be familiar with this game."

Annette smiled and sighed half-heartedly. "Do you really undervalue your teaching that much?"

"Normally I would not, but I have remained undefeated for every game since I was ten."

"Then perhaps, Enjolras, you had better be on your guard."

Enjolras said nothing. He remained stoically silent. Then, all of a sudden he seemed reanimated and triumphantly moved his queen and trapped Annette's king. Clearly this was his favorite part. His eyes burned with passion as he kept his eyes on the king.

"Down with the king!" He exclaimed. No matter which way she chose, he would win. Annette watched his liveliness with a smile. God, how she loved him.

***calinours — _teddy bear_**

**_*_chaton — _sweet little kitten_**

* * *

Eponine stopped going to the Musain meetings. She told herself that it was because she had other things to do, such as figuring out ways to get out of the situation with Blaise. Annette had quickly tired of her hovering, and since she wasn't going to the meetings for a while Eponine had no reason to go. These were the excuses she gave for herself every day.

One night in December, just a couple of weeks before Christmas, Eponine met Combeferre on her way to meet Blaise.

"A rather cold night to be out, isn't it?" Combeferre said mildly, making conversation. Annoyedly Eponine looked at the little pocket-watch she'd snatched a while ago. She needed to go. If she were late...

"I really can't talk at the moment, Auguste," Eponine said hastily, avoiding eye contact and continuing on her way.

"Where are you going?"

"Is that any of your business?" Eponine snapped. If only he knew that every moment he stalled her, the punishment would only be worse.

"I would like to think we are still friends, Eponine. Besides, you shouldn't walk alone at night in these parts." He looked around at the grim setting surrounding them.

"I'm more than capable of taking care of myself, Auguste."

Combeferre smiled. "I know you are. But I doubt I could get on very well if confronted by a gang of thieves."

Eponine rolled her eyes, almost ready to fall back into their old banter. But she couldn't; not yet anyway.

"How's Annette?" He asked as they continued along the streets.

"I don't know. She's being ridiculous about everything. It was impossible to keep her in the room for more than a minute sometimes, even when she was already delirious and half fainting. You'd think she'd be happy to get a day off from everything."

Combeferre was quiet, and seemed lost in thought. Eponine glanced every now and then at him, wondering why he'd bother to trail along if he wouldn't say anything.

"Two years, Eponine. She hid it for two _years_. Don't you ever wonder about the things she must be feeling to have thought that best?"

"I think she was stupid and afraid," Eponine retorted. She didn't know why, but she didn't like the way Combeferre spoke about Annette. He sounded so concerned all the time, always worrying about other people. When would he learn that sometimes you just had to look out for yourself to survive, without the mistakes of others burdening you? Look where caring for people had gotten her.

"Maybe so. But she is only human, like the rest of us." Eponine sighed, her breath freezing in the air.

"You have a lot to say about Annette tonight, don't you?"

Combeferre looked at her in surprise and frowned. "I worry for her. We all do. She is too prideful to ever ask for help, and won't let anyone see her when she is vulnerable." After a pause, he added, "I believe that is something you two have in common."

Eponine scoffed. "And do you worry for me, too?"

"Yes," Combeferre replied. "Because the rough exterior under which you hide yourself masks your fear. And one day, when that mask falls away, you will not know what to do."

"What is it you think I fear?" Eponine asked carelessly to humor him.

"Rejection. Loneliness," Combeferre said gently.

Eponine stopped abruptly. "You know nothing of my life," she snapped. "If I wanted your help I would ask for it."

"Would you?" Combeferre's eyes searched her quietly. Eponine felt a shiver run down her spine.

"No," she said. "It is not I who needs help. It's you. Find another girl to bother with your stupid philosophies. I stopped caring a long while ago. You've no right to tell me what I'm afraid of; I know myself well enough. What are _you_ afraid of? Or are you the perfect, fearless, steady guide everyone thinks you are?"

She felt she struck a chord in him at last, and she felt sorry that she attacked him so. But he deserved it. He deserved it. He had no idea about the things she was doing to keep the people she loved _safe. _And that was what mattered most.

She thought he would finally leave her alone, and say goodnight. She thought that with this, the last ties of their friendship would be over at last. But still he stayed.

"Failure," he said at last. Eponine thought she'd heard wrong.

"What?"

"Failure. That is what I am afraid of, Eponine. Our friends, they rely on me. I don't know why, but they do. One day they'll realize I am not fit to help them. I couldn't even help Gervais." He said this last part softly. Eponine looked at him curiously.

"Who's Gervais?"

Combeferre didn't look at her now. "He was my neighbor's son. He fell off a ladder and broke his spine. His mother came to me so confidently, Eponine, so sure I could somehow help. Do you know what it's like...to tell a mother her child is dead?"

A lump formed in Eponine's throat at the thought of what she'd do if it had been Gavroche.

"You can't save everyone. No one expects you to," she finally said.

"Yes they do." Combeferre glanced at her briefly, his eyes sad.

Eponine wanted to tell him something, something to make them both feel better. But she knew he was right. When someone was hurt, they went to him. When they needed advice, comfort, friendship, it was always Combeferre. Who was supposed to advise and comfort him?

Eponine noticed she'd already circled around the streets several times with Combeferre. It was time for her to go.

"I have to go, Auguste." She hesitated. "I'll see you at the Musain tomorrow morning?" Something told her to go to the next meeting. Even if it were just that one, so she could assure him one last time.

"You never did tell me where you're in such a hurry to go," Combeferre said.

"I've already stopped to talk to you, haven't I? _Bon_ _nuit_, Auguste."

"Good night, Eponine," Combeferre said. Then she was alone again.

—

"Did you find us a solution?" Blaise snarled, grabbing Eponine by the shoulders and shaking her. She kicked him in the groin, twisting away. The same fight, over and over again. The same fight she never won.

"I told you, not yet! Everyone's been busy because of—" she stopped, realizing what she'd been about to say._ Because_ _Annette is sick_. She let out a heavy breath and widened the distance between them.

"Because of what?" Suddenly Blaise was there, holding her by the hair. He lifted her face towards him and pressed his knife to her throat. "If you hide something, so help me I will first kill your siblings, then your friends, and I'll make you watch. Then I'll kill _you_."

Eponine struggled against him, though she knew it was pointless. He was stronger.

"Sinking to common blackmail, now, are you? What happened to all your great and dangerous plots?"

A flash of pain went went through her scalp as Blaise tugged harder. He pressed the knife deeper, drawing blood. Eponine suppressed a scream. _Let_ _him kill me_, she thought_. I won't tell._

Then he stopped, and suddenly she was on the ground. She braced herself for the blow, but it didn't come. She looked up tentatively. Blaise was walking away, and came back with a young girl bound by her hands and feet, a gag tied round her mouth. It was Azelma.

Eponine stared unbelievingly, as if in a dream, as Blaise held her to his chest, his knife now pointed at Azelma's throat.

"Tell me," he said calmly. Eponine saw the panic on Azelma's face, the hatred, the anger...

"No," she said shakily. He wouldn't do it. He wouldn't.

With a quick swipe Blaise struck Azelma across the face with the knife, creating a long, deep, gash across her face. Azelma screams were muffled by the blindfold, and she crumpled to the ground, pressing her hands to her face. Eponine yelled for her, lunging forward, but Blaise stepped in front of her and kicked her back.

"Tell me," he repeated. She couldn't, she couldn't, she wouldn't, she wouldn't...

"No," Eponine whispered. She couldn't. He would ruin the lives of everyone, and—

An ear piercing scream sounded in the air as Azelma's gag fell off her face. Another gash had appeared, dark rivulets of blood streaming down her face. _No no no!_ Eponine's thoughts screamed. _What are you doing? That's your sister and you have to save her! Anything! You'll do anything!_

And that was how it came out.

Blaise slowly wiped the blood from the knife onto his trousers, making a show of watching the blade gleam to hide his excitement at the news. Finally, he turned to Eponine with a smile.

"It seems you solved the problem after all, my girl. I won't have to worry about getting caught anymore—no, oh no. This will be much better. She'll die all on her own, without any prompting from me, and I'll be rich." His teeth gleamed in the moonlight, and he watched with a sardonic grin as Eponine crawled to Azelma, clumsily untying the bonds that held her. She pressed her sobbing sister close, and tried to ignore the slow laughter of Blaise as he slipped back into the shadows and disappeared.

—

"Annette," Eponine called urgently to the sleeping form on the bed. Nothing. Impatiently she shook Annette. Annette started violently, her breath ragged and fast. _She must be having those nightmares,_ Eponine thought.

"What—"

"Where does Auguste live? Or _someone_—Joly, or that doctor, please Annette. I need help."

Annette stood, hastily dressing, and tripping over her feet with sleepiness. Eponine watched impatiently as Azelma stood outside, her face covered in blood.

"Are you hurt?" Annette asked hoarsely.

Eponine shook her head. "I'm fine, it's my sister. Azelma. Please, she's waiting," she said. Annette nodded then gasped with pain.

"What?" Eponine snapped. She knew it was unkind, she did, but she was afraid more than anything of what would happen to Azelma.

"Nothing," Annette said, pulling her boots on. "Let's go."

Eponine hugged Azelma close as they hurried through the streets. Annette stopped a couple of times, clutching her side, but all Eponine could think about was her sister was bleeding everywhere and every minute.

Finally, _finally_, they reached the large, ancient, apartment building Enjolras and Combeferre resided in. Annette hurriedly knocked, waiting a few seconds before knocking again.

"Oh, let me do it, damn it," Eponine muttered. She banged on the door mercilessly, until a short, dirty old man appeared and started yelling in some other language at them. Annette said something, and with a huff he led them in to a door with a large 21 emblazoned in a deep red.

Enjolras opened the door, his shirtsleeves loose and hastily buttoned, his tie hanging round his neck. Yet he didn't look like he'd just woken up. From the ink stains on his elbows it seemed as though he was performing one of his famous late night study sessions. He looked in surprise at the girls, then Annette.

"We need Combeferre," Annette said.

Enjolras brought them in. He called for his friend, and Combeferre promptly appeared, still fully dressed.

_He must have just gotten back,_ Eponine thought. Combeferre sprang into action at the sight of Azelma.

"Get water and the linen," he told Enjolras, pulling out his medicine bag. He led the frightened Azelma to a chair, and started speaking gently to her. Azelma was defensive, and spat out her comments aggressively. Eponine marveled at Combeferre's patience and tenderness in dealing with her.

As Combeferre treated Azelma, Annette asked her in a low voice, "What happened tonight? Who did this to her?"

_Now is as good a time as ever to tell her,_ Eponine thought angrily. She turned to Annette.

"Your old _lover_, Blaise. It's because of you, you've brought this on all of us, with your stupid and pointless lies. Because that's all you've done, isn't it? Lie, over and over again." The words came out in a merciless flow of anger and fear that had been compressed and hidden away for too long. The confused look on Annette's face only frustrated her further.

"I don't understand, what does he have to do with this? How did you get caught up in this?" Her face was distressed, and she touched Eponine's arm—for what? To comfort her? To comfort herself? Stability?

"He has everything to do with this," Eponine replied coldly. She looked away, realizing Enjolras was watching her intently. Suddenly she stopped.

Blaise had proven that he would stop at nothing to get what he wanted. He'd mutilated Azelma and now knew extremely dangerous information about Annette. What would happen if she told them? They couldn't stop him; he had followers all over Paris. He would just hurt Gavroche next. Eponine shuddered.

Combeferre had finished helping Azelma and after giving her something to drink, joined them at the table.

"You're talking about the man who came to the Musain last year?" He asked, glancing at Annette. Annette flushed under his gaze.

Eponine didn't answer. She didn't know what to do. She stood up and started pacing, inadvertently taking in the little details of Combeferre's home. His anatomy and physiology books, piles and piles of ink stained pages of notes, sketches and diagrams of the human body. The smell of coffee and burning wood. _Focus._ What to do?

"What is it?" Enjolras asked impatiently. Eponine agitatedly rubbed her hands, wishing someone could tell her what to do.

"I'm in a moral quandary," she snapped. She saw Annette raise her eyebrows at her remark. But Combeferre always watched her, steady and encouraging. Finally she slumped back into her seat. "I'm dead anyway. We all are." She gave an apologetic look to Annette, to tell her she was sorry for the callousness. And for what she was about to tell her. "Blaise wants...you."

Annette shifted uneasily, an indiscernible expression on her face. "Me?"

"Your fortune," Eponine corrected. "He wants to marry you for the money, and then...well..."

"Then what?" Enjolras demanded uneasily, though Eponine guessed he already knew.

"He wants you dead. He's still angry over your deception years ago. Your death and the money is what he's been working towards for the past two years."

As Enjolras and Annette were stunned into silence, Combeferre prodded, "What part did you have in it?" She couldn't call his tone accusing, because it wasn't. But to her, she felt ashamed that he would have to know what she'd done. She found her next words the bitterest and the hardest she'd ever had to say.

"I was supposed to be a spy for him. At first, I thought I had him under control and he would let it go after a week or two. I told him lies about where you worked and lived, who your friends were..." she paused, looking straight at Annette. "When I left at night it was because I had to 'report' to him. Still I thought it would end. But then my father came.

"I think Blaise would have settled for just forcing you to marry him. But it was my father who convinced him he had to get rid of you forever. He brought all of his friends into it, all for a share of your fortune. There's a girl too, some blonde. She has some personal vendetta against you and apparently she and Blaise will use your fortune."

"I don't understand why you stayed, why you didn't tell me," Annette said angrily.

"Because he would kill my brother and sister, and torture them and me if I didn't bring him something," Eponine answered hotly. "A while ago, he ran into an obstacle . You can't get your fortune till you turn some age, and he needed a way to kill you without being suspected. I was supposed to find the answer. I figured I had more time." She shrugged. "I didn't. And tonight...well, now he knows about your sickness, and your...what? Twenty-fourth birthday is coming up."

"Is that everything?" Combeferre asked. Eponine nodded tiredly. Everyone sat stunned in silence. Eponine resigned herself to the fact that nobody would want her around anymore. Why would they? She deserved nothing less. She'd been selfish, so selfish and stupid. She braved herself for the words that would cast her from their lives forever.

It was Annette who spoke next. She rose quickly, still holding her side. "Take me to him," she said. Anger blazed in her eyes. "Take me, Eponine. I'm going to kill him. I'm going to make him suffer after what he did to you."

Combeferre gently sat her back down. "Perhaps that is not the wisest course of action," he mused. "If he is looking for you, going to him will not solve anything."

"It'll solve _everything_," Annette replied. "How exactly does he plan to make me marry him? He isn't so stupid as to know it wouldn't be voluntary. So what's he going to do then?"

"And what do you intend to do?" Enjolras asked. Lately Eponine had noticed that he was less harsh, less cold, and less distant. Now it seemed to have come back, and he sounded as though he were reprimanding a disappointing child. She didn't blame Annette when she gave him a terrible look and replied,

"Do you know how he intends to make me marry him? By blackmailing me with Courfeyrac's and Eponine's lives. What use am I anyway? Let him kill me, what do I care?"

"Annette, stop," Enjolras said.

Annette got up again, and this time, ignored the looks they shot her way. Enjolras followed her to the hallway. Combeferre and Eponine heard Annette say coolly, "Don't bother following me, Enjolras. I won't die tonight. There is business I must attend to alone."

They heard the sharp click as the door closed, and then it was all silence. Enjolras came back and started pacing, immediately falling into a steady rhythm he must have been very familiar with.

"Where do you think she's going?" Combeferre asked. His glasses were falling off the bridge of his nose, but he didn't bother pushing them back up. Eponine saw the worry in his eyes as he glanced every now and then at the door. Suddenly an idea came into her mind.

"I think I know," Eponine said slowly.

* * *

Annette reached the huge white manor and without a second thought she knocked on the door without stopping. She refused to stop because she knew she would turn back and change her mind if she did. There was no chance of that happening tonight.

The door was opened by the tired maid, Marie, who seemed about to rage at whoever had interrupted her sleep. When she saw Annette, however, she stopped and stared in surprise.

"The little Mademoiselle! Well, now, it's been a while! Changed your mind, have you?" She stepped aside, her once friendly manner now cold and accusing. Annette was sorry, because she and Marie has once been close. But Marie had always been fonder of Monsieur de Courfeyrac, and her loyalty would never die.

"I don't even know if I should let you in," she grumbled. "For all the pain and sleepless nights you've caused your father. Ungrateful child, you are." As she spoke she hurried off to wake her employer, leaving Annette alone in the familiar, cold, empty halls of her childhood. She looked around, her breath catching at the portrait of Madame de Courfeyrac. She'd forgotten how much she had missed her over the years, and the beauty and grace and kindness she'd always carried with her was reflected perfectly in the painting.

Madame de Courfeyrac's high cheekbones, prominent, long, sloping nose, sparkling brown eyes, and curly chestnut hair had been the envy of ladies all over Paris for many years. Annette had always wished she could have one of her defining features, so people would look and know that they were mother and daughter, instead of being told the elaborate story of adoption. Instead, they recognized in Courfeyrac the brown curls and warm, friendly eyes, an imprint of her life the mother had left on her true child. It would have been the greatest comfort to at least be the daughter, and not the boarder or guest. All those years had been spent on the outside looking in.

Marie returned with Monsieur de Courfeyrac, dressed in his robe and slippers. He looked at Annette with an almost smug, knowing eye, as though he knew this would happen.

"So it looks as though I didn't have to come back at all, Annette. You came home of your own accord." He was telling her this, yet his tone was questioning and hopeful. Annette shook her head.

"Let's sit down, Father."

Monsieur de Courfeyrac smiled, but his face fell when Annette's back was turned. He followed her into the little parlor that had always been his wife's favorite.

"Well, what is it?" He asked gruffly, once they were seated on the armchairs. "You need money? Because I'm afraid, my dear, my money only belongs to those who act as good daughters do."

Annette drew in a breath, telling herself not to respond to his goading words. Just tell him and get it done with.

"Actually, it is quite the opposite." Annette stared levelly at her father. "I want you to revoke the fortune I am to get when I turn twenty-four."

Monsieur de Courfeyrac stared at her, his face undergoing many shades of purple and red before settling on a bright crimson. "And why," he spat, "do you want this?"

Annette stopped. She wasn't telling him about Blaise. She would have to remind him about the scene he'd borne witness to near the angel statue those years ago. His insistence that she come back to him would then grow into force when she told him about his plans. She was not proud of what she did next. She knew it hurt him, and whatever regard he'd had for her at all. But it had to be done.

"Because I am not your daughter, am I?" She asked. "You have reminded me, sir, that I am not a real Courfeyrac. I have gotten on quite well without your money now, so I have no need for your charity any longer. Give the money to Etienne, who at least has his birth on his side."

"I will not!" He roared. "Your mother saved that money for you all her life, and by _God_ you will take it if I have to force you!"

"Why is she my mother, but you always reminded me you are not my father? Why was she good enough to have me, but you were not? Why would you always remind me, day after day, that I do not belong here? Why, if you want me to return so badly?"

"Because you reminded me of _him_!" Monsieur de Courfeyrac said angrily.

Annette stared at him in confusion. "I remind you of who?"

Monsieur de Courfeyrac stood up and walked to the window, staring out at the dimly lit night, watching a single carriage roll down the quiet street.

"You are right. You are not my daughter, but you are hers. And my old friend's. You see Annette, your mother stopped loving me soon after she had Etienne. Apparently I was not enough. But Gustav was." He clenched his fist.

"You look exactly like he did, in all his handsome glory. The hair you always complained about not being like your mother's, well, it is his. Those eyes that made you seem to never belong, those are his as well. Everything, everything reminds me of him." He stopped, his breath coming out as though he were choking.

Annette stared in shock at the news, her mind whirling with this new information. She was her mother's daughter—_but not her father's_. There was a new man entered in her story, someone she had never known. So many questions spun in her mind, but she could not form the words to ask them. Her vision went in and out of focus as she tried to understand and make sense of it all.

Monsieur de Courfeyrac continued talking, as though now he had begun he needed it all out.

"Now I can only see your mother in you. Your stubbornness, your reasoning, your impertinent attitude." He hesitated. "She was lively and beautiful and too good for me. But you remind me of her, Annette. You can come home, and we can make amends." He looked at her again, with that pure hope and eagerness.

"Who is my father?" Annette asked, staring at her hands. Monsieur de Courfeyrac waved it off.

"He is nobody. He is long gone."

"Who is my father?" Annette repeated, looking at him seriously, a dangerous warning in her eyes. Monsieur de Courfeyrac's shoulders sagged; the corners of his lips tugged down in a forlorn expression.

"Gustav Reneau. He was a sergeant in the army, and my childhood friend, until..." his face contorted with hatred, and he looked away.

"Gustav Reneau," Annette repeated, the sound of the name unfamiliar on her tongue. _Gustav Reneau is my father. _Then, daringly, she thought, _Annette Reneau could have been my name._

"Where is he?" She asked.

Monsieur de Courfeyrac scoffed. "Why should you care? You wish to make contact with him? To tell him, 'here I am, your long lost daughter?'"

Annette said nothing, heat rising in her cheeks.

"Well, Annette, you cannot." His eyes glowed with happiness, and he paused for a moment. "He is dead."

A lump rose in Annette's throat and she stood abruptly. "Why would you not tell me all these years that I had a father? Why—"

"You have a father," he said harshly. "I am your father, and don't you forget it. Who has taught you, and kept you, educated you, helped you along all these years? It was not him."

"I never wanted a fortune!" Annette cried. "I wanted someone who would love me! And after _maman_ died, it was not you!"

"Do you know how your mother died?"

Annette stopped, afraid of the question. "She was sick. She died from a fever."

"No," Monsieur de Courfeyrac said quietly. "No she was not. Gustav and I had a duel for your mother's honor, and she came between us. It was Gustav. Always him."

Annette recoiled in horror at the thought of the terrible scene. Her mother! Her dear, dear mother, killed over a fight between two men!

Monsieur de Courfeyrac clutched the windowpane as if unsteady on his feet. "It was not my fault," he said over and over again. "You were not mine, then. I saw him, only him. You were not mine."

Annette wiped the tears threatening to fall any moment from her eyes. "I am not yours! You had no right to keep the truth from me! I should know who my father is!"

"Well, now you do," Monsieur de Courfeyrac replied angrily. "And what will you do now?"

Annette walked to the other end of the room; she saw the little piano she used to spend so many hours frustrated over. She touched it gently and the familiar keys brought slight comfort. He would be no help. She had come here for one purpose and one alone. _Keep them safe_.

"I don't want the fortune. I will not have it. If you don't take it I will give it away to the first person I meet on the street." She walked away, and paused at the doorway. "Good night, Monsieur de Courfeyrac."

When Annette was outside she collapsed on the nearest bench and cried. There was a man who had been missing from her life all this time, who she would never know. He might have been all Monsieur de Courfeyrac was not: kind, loving, gentle, and encouraging. He might have taken her to the theater, helped her with her difficult piano pieces, danced her first waltz with him.

Instead she had never known him. A terrible idea struck her mind; did he even know of her existence? Had Gustav Reneau been aware that he had a daughter? Had he had another family? Had he married, had other children? These things she did not know, but knew that she needed to.

Did Courfeyrac know about this? Did he know about their mother? Every new question brought forth a new wave of tears, and Annette had never felt so completely unwelcome in the world. Who was she anymore? She was a solitary little island, drifting away with no one to hold her and guide her.

"Well now, what do we have here?" A chillingly smooth voice asked. A painful feeling of despair settled over Annette. It was over. He had found her at last, and there was nothing to prevent him from ending it once and for all. She looked up at Blaise, with his hungry smile and his cold, lifeless eyes.

"Poor, poor dear. It's been a while, hasn't it Annie?" The use of that name made her stand and face him squarely. She was ready. She would fight.

"Well, come on, say something. Happy to see me at last? I believe I haven't yet repaid you for our last encounter."

Annette's eyes flickered to his nose, remembering the bloody blow she'd given him. The thought brought a tiny smile to her lips.

"I've waited a long time for this, Annie. A long time indeed." In a flash, he pinned her arms behind her back and held her close to him. Annette's heart thundered in her chest. She would not give up, she would not give in...

"I'll have you soon enough, don't worry about that. I know all about your...fragility." He grinned. "We'll celebrate your birthday together, eh? I've got something pretty special planned, you know. That fortune of yours will make me powerful again."

Annette started laughing. Blaise gripped her tightly, confused.

"What is it? What are you doing?"

Annette kept laughing. "What fortune, Blaise? It's been revoked. Looks like you'll have to find someone else."

Blaise released her and threw her to the ground. She painfully hit her hip, and felt it would bruise quickly.

"You're lying," he snarled. "Tell me the truth or I swear I will kill you right here and now."

"Will you?" Annette struggled to her feet before Blaise could stop her. She pulled from her pocket the dinner knife she'd swiped from Enjolras' apartment. It was small, but sharp enough to be dangerous. "I don't think you will. Not tonight." She burned with the desire to end him, to finish him. She was at once disgusted and invigorated by the thoughts of violence, but all she could think about was revenge, revenge for all the people he'd hurt, revenge for ruining their lives. She didn't notice how her hand shook as she held it, poised and ready to kill.

At that moment she saw someone take Blaise from behind and pin him to the ground. She saw a flash of golden curls and immediately recognized Enjolras. A voice called to her from the shadows, but with the movement, dimly lit street, and the black spots that began appearing in her vision, she saw no one. There was shouting, so much shouting, then it all was quiet. _I've killed him_, Annette thought detachedly.

She felt a hand on her arm, and saw Courfeyrac slowly lowering it and taking the knife from her hand.

"Annie," he said carefully. "Come on, let's go."

"No," she said loudly. Courfeyrac took her hand but she pulled away from him. "I can't. I—there was something—" She couldn't think; where was she?

More shouting; a female yell; Eponine. Blurry figures moving back and forth, throwing their hands up in frustration.

"Annie, come on, you're not safe," Courfeyrac said urgently. "Please don't make me carry you. I've had quite a night."

Annette shook her head, trying to think. She had to tell him something—so many questions. What was it?

When all was quiet, Enjolras came and asked Courfeyrac, "What are you doing? Get her out of here. There are more coming."

"She won't go," Courfeyrac said, looking back at Annette. "I'd pick her up, but my arm..." he winced. Enjolras sighed.

"Fine. You go with them, I'll take her." When Courfeyrac left, Enjolras turned to Annette. "Annette, you have to come with me. They're coming for us, for _you_. We need to go," he said. He took her hand and they started walking. Annette tried to keep up, but she felt like she was jerked along.

"Can we...slow down?" She puffed, bursting into a fit of coughing. Her lungs burned with pain, and her sides were cramping. Enjolras stopped, his eyes deep and concerned for some reason. Annette stared back, the world around her fading around the edges.

"It hurts, doesn't it?" Enjolras asked, his voice almost...gentle. It was odd; she must be weaker than she'd thought. Annette stared past him and nodded. "Here, I'll carry you," Enjolras said. Before Annette could protest, that _no, he would do no such thing, she could get on very well herself,_ he picked her up in his arms and continued walking. Annette sighed and settled in against his chest, aware enough to be extremely uncomfortable. She had never been so close to him. She could feel the slight and rapid beating of his heart, and the steady rhythm soothed her and gave her something to count. The slow sway of his gait was strangely familiar.

_One two, one two, one two._..

She let herself close her eyes, and soon they were in what she recognized vaguely as his apartment. Enjolras set her down on the big armchair, awkwardly hovering for a second to make sure she was comfortable. It was only then Annette realized what had just happened. What had she done? Shame ran through her as she stared at her hands in mortification. Enjolras went to boil water, and neither of them said a word for a terrible long while.

Finally, Annette couldn't bear the silence. "I'm sorry," she burst. Enjolras looked at her in surprise, still silent. Annette continued. "I don't know what came over me. I...my father, he told me so many things, and I—Etienne, I have to tell him, or maybe he already knows, and Blaise came, and I thought—"

"You can't be by yourself anymore, Annette," Enjolras said. Annette looked up questioningly. "You can't live alone, go out alone—it's too dangerous for you. Perhaps...perhaps your father was right, and you should return to him." He looked away. "At least there you would be safe."

Annette stared back at him with anger. He hadn't been there tonight. He hadn't heard what she had. "I would rather be dead and free than safe and living with him," she said violently. Her hands shook again, and she stared at them angrily. She felt like she was spinning out of control.

Enjolras left, returning a few moments later with a blanket. "Here. You're shivering, Annie." Annette shuddered unconsciously, remembering Blaise. Annie. When had Enjolras ever called her that? She murmured thanks and watched him move around his apartment. She could tell he was agitated; he always resorted to pacing and active movement when he was frustrated with something, frustrated with her. Finally he burst, as he always did eventually. The pacing came to an end and he turned to her.

"Why would you leave us right after Eponine told us everything? To get yourself killed? I don't understand. You never tell me anything; Eponine is right. You have too many secrets."

A shock went through Annette as she was faced with the accusations she'd made against herself for so many years. _Too many secrets._

"I needed to do something," she said. "I couldn't stay here with you—with you trying to lock me in and keep me safe from everything." She pulled the blanket around her shoulders close, finding no warmth to match Enjolras' brief embrace. "I thought if I could get my father to take back my fortune, Blaise would stop."

"And did he?" Enjolras searched Annette, already knowing the answer.

"No." Annette drew her legs underneath her, curling herself into a small ball on the chair.

"Then why? Why do all of this? You could have waited one minute just to talk to me—"

"Because I'm so _tired_!" Annette cried, tears falling against her will. "All the time I'm so tired of everything, and I know why. I can feel myself dying, Enjolras. It feels like I have to always do something or else it will catch up with me and it'll be over. I can never move fast enough. I want to stop, but I can't. I can't," she cried. She buried her face in her hands to block out the world. She heard Enjolras' slow approaching steps, and the creak of the chair springs as he sat down next to her.

"Why don't you talk to me, Annie?" He asked softly. "You can tell me anything. Don't you know that? We were supposed to be in this fight together." He gently lifted her head up and brushed away her hair from her face. "You don't need to worry. I'll keep you safe, I promise. How about you sleep now, you look like you need it."

Annette looked into his clear, stable blue eyes that promised comfort and reason and safety and wanted to fall asleep right there in his arms. But she couldn't. He wanted the truth, let him have it.

"I'm afraid to fall asleep each night because I fear I'll die if I do," she said quietly. She trembled and wrapped herself tightly in the blankets. Enjolras moved closer.

"You don't have to be afraid of never waking up," he said gently. "I'll be there to make sure you do."

"You don't understand," she said, leaning against him for warmth. She loved his firm solidness, how anchored he made her feel. "It's been like this for years. And it _hurts_. I just want it to stop."

Enjolras took her in his arms, holding her close to him. They sat like that for a long while, and Annette listened to the comforting one two of his heart before her eyes closed and the world turned dark.

It was the first dreamless sleep she'd had in a long time.

* * *

Sleep did not come so quickly for Enjolras.

As he held Annette in his arms, Enjolras' mind furiously worked to piece together the events of the night. Why was the one girl who had come into their lives, nearly three years ago, always the center of something? It was as though she had triggered an avalanche of events that would cause the crumbling of everything around them.

She had always been strong, seemingly carefree and generally happy, and to know the truth had struck Enjolras to his core. Her sudden weakness seemed at odds with all that he had known about her before. She'd always been flippant about serious and personal things, yet had never been afraid for people to know how she felt. Enjolras never understood that; the awkwardness about such things was something they had in common. Now it was surprising and confusing when she bared the depths of her soul to him. He didn't know how to help her or speak to her.

Enjolras did not know what to do. This was why he had preferred studying and planning revolutions to women. This was so much more confusing, terrifying, and wonderful.

The secret little understanding between them had been enough for Enjolras. Knowing that she somehow cared and accepted him had relieved him, and he'd thought that was all that was necessary. He now realized there was so much more they would have to overcome together, and it most likely would not all be pleasant.

A part of Enjolras wanted to hold Annette forever and never let go. They would forget everything and make the most of their lives, and they could be happy.

The other part, the older, wiser, stricter part knew that such things would not last. He was committed to the people, and now his commitments had been divided. He watched Annette's face, so pale and peaceful in sleep, and knew that ever since the beginning he'd been doomed to fall.

What did he want anymore?

He wanted freedom and equality and justice brought to the people, but the lines were beginning to blur for him. As he witnessed every day firsthand the struggles Annette and Eponine and many others faced, he was moved to help them individually, and stopped thinking about the people as a general concept. The sudden horror that there were more like Annette horrified him, though of course he'd always known. But now he _knew_ how it affected others. There was so much for him to learn.

Beyond politics, why was it so difficult for him to show love? How was it easy for his friends to carelessly toss an arm around Annette's shoulders or spin her around, making her laugh, free and spirited? They found no problems with caresses and looks and words, yet Enjolras had to force such gestures still. Shouldn't it be natural? Was he really the marble statue his friends claimed he was?

Enjolras slowly settled Annette out of his arms and onto the cushions, hoping she wouldn't wake. He yearned to stay up and talk with her all night, as they'd used to do before all of this. She could have given him her blunt counsel and sharp wisdom. She wouldn't hesitate to let him know what he was doing wrong.

But he couldn't. He began pacing back and forth, giving in to the recurring habit. She shouldn't have more things to worry about.

A sudden fear gripped his heart as the thoughts he'd been pushing to the back of his mind for weeks now confronted him all at once.

He had so many people relying on him. The Amis looked up to him as their leader, and he hadn't done any kind of leading for weeks. All of them, Annette, Eponine, Combeferre. Combeferre was growing distant, and he didn't know why. Was he losing his friends? Was—

The door opened, and Combeferre, Eponine, Courfeyrac, and Joly entered. Combeferre's eye was swollen and bruised, and Eponine was covered in scratches. Courfeyrac looked furious and Joly was, predictably, concerned.

Before they could make too much noise Enjolras quickly threw his hands up in the air, gesturing to Annette. They stopped in their tracks, unable to vent out their frustrations and anger in the presence of the sleeping girl.

Courfeyrac let out an impressive sigh as he pulled up a chair next to Annette.

"You'd think she'd have some trouble sleeping knowing someone's out to kill her."

"Actually, increased fatigue is one of the most common effects of consumption, and with all the activity she's had it's no wonder she burned out quickly," Joly chipped in. Combeferre nodded, observing Annette's serenity.

"Apparently she's had trouble sleeping. Nightmares, and such. But it seems she's alright now."

Eponine inspected the crisscrossing cuts and bruises decorating her arms and face in the mirror on the wall.

"What happened?" Enjolras asked Courfeyrac. Courfeyrac looked up, new animation lighting in his eyes.

"So I was—" he was interrupted by the admittedly louder hushing of Joly, who violently waved to Annette. Courfeyrac rolled his eyes and continued. "I was with Joly in my room, trying to get him to give me that waistcoat—you know, the blue with the silver buttons? It's very fine—and Eponine came in, a mess, saying something about Annette being killed. As you can imagine, we were in a hurry to get there, where Combeferre was rather impressively losing the fight."

Combeferre shook his head, unamused.

"Anyway, we were _this_ close to finally catching Blaise. This close, _mon ami, _when his goons arrived. He got away, and I wanted to see if Annette was safe." His eyes were earnest as he looked again at Annette. A feeling of irritation stirred in Enjolras, though he couldn't think why.

There was a long silence, until finally Eponine spoke.

"So who's going to do it?" She asked nonchalantly, wincing as she pulled her hair away from a bleeding cut on her neck.

Enjolras turned to her suspiciously. "What are you talking about?"

Eponine gave him a look implying he really did know nothing of the world. "Who's going to kill Blaise?"

Again there was silence.

"You can't expect it to be safe for anyone to let him _live_ now that he knows that you know about his plans?"

"I think the best course would be to inform the police, first, Eponine," Combeferre said. "Or it might be the wrong person who goes to prison."

Eponine scoffed. "What'll the police do? They're useless; I should know. They'd sooner arrest us for giving them false information. All the while Blaise is still alive. How does that help anybody?"

Joly laughed nervously. "But surely he wouldn't continue now that he's been discovered? We could have the whole of Paris searching for him, and he'd never be safe."

"You have no idea how many followers he's got," Eponine fired. "Dozens. They're all willing to be his bodyguards for a share in profit. I'm telling you, the police are incompetent. We have to do it ourselves."

"I will not condone killing a man like this!" Combeferre said suddenly. Eponine turned to him with quiet rage in her countenance.

"So you would have everyone else die, then? Annette, our friends, me?"

Combeferre hesitated. He looked to Enjolras. "Come, Enjolras, you can't possibly—"

"We have to keep each other safe," Enjolras said. "Think about the things this man has done to Annette, to Eponine, the things he will do to get what he wants. But how do we bring justice without doing wrong ourselves? For certainly, whoever killed him would have to be punished as well."

They looked at each other, confused and afraid. Then Eponine finally sighed and said, "I know someone who will do anything to bring justice, though it kills me to bring him up considering the justice he brought to my family." Her mouth was set in a grim line, indicating that this was not a course she'd wanted to take, but which now seemed to be their only hope.

"Who is this man?" Enjolras asked.

A tense silence ensued for a moment.

"Inspector Javert."

* * *

Javert was just about to leave his office when he got the message from the clerk.

He'd spent the last hour ensuring everything and everyone was in order. The police department of Paris had to work like an oiled machine—smoothly, compatibly, harmoniously. Every little detail was crucial. That extravagant deputy needed to get his affairs in order, the secretary to stop that infernal twitching. What use could they be, distracting him? They knew he was on his case, that case that was _his_ and his alone.

The clerk, Feuxbriand, arrived at Javert's desk, red faced and panting, his large spectacles asked on his face. The man had a way of flitting about like a dragonfly, always so nervous and jumpy, with spectacles that magnified his eyes.

He cleared his throat as he fumbled with the frayed edge of his waistcoat, trying in vain to catch Javert's eye.

"Excuse me, monsieur..."

Javert snapped his head up from his work in irritation. He said nothing, only giving the man a nod.

"There's a girl who wants to see you. Wouldn't talk to anybody else, she said. Apparently it's an urgent matter." Feaxbriand's eyes shifted back and forth from Javert's face to the desk. Javert gave him a level stare, and he abruptly stopped.

Javert glanced down at the unfinished puaperwork he had in front of him. He had so many other duties to fulfill, as was his job as Head Police Inspector. Yet what could be done?

"Bring her in. This had better not be a waste of my time," Javert said curtly. His clerk nodded quickly and hurried off.

He returned a moment later, dragging behind him a rather familiar grisette with a murderous expression on her face. Javert was never one to forget a face, yet the girl's appearance was markedly different from the memory of their last encounter; gone were the filthy torn rags that barely covered her emaciated body. Instead, she appeared almost normal with her body that had filled out, simple but neat wool dress, but for the wild and untamed dark hair that wasn't properly pinned back, as a respectable girl should do. No, Javert mused, that was the problem with the female ruffians. They didn't care for anything of propriety, which showed in their blatant disregard for all things lawful.

Javert inclined his head slightly to the girl. "Sit," he ordered.

The girl stared at him, nostrils flaring. Then she dropped into the chair and immediately began talking and babbling excitedly. Javert put a hand out to silence her and said coldly, "First, your name, age, and home address, Mademoiselle."

"Eponine…" she told him the specifics with an annoyed look on her face, and he could tell she was about to make an outburst.

"You want to file a report on illegal activity, correct? You can talk to—"

"No," Eponine said sharply. "I want to enlist your help to catch the most dangerous ruffian to walk the streets of Paris."

Javert stared at her a moment, half of him ready to berate her for her tone and another already asking questions. _Who, why, where_?

The facts came pouring out of her like water. _Blaise Vichy. Murder. Fortunes. Treachery, villainy. Gangs. Murder._

When Eponine finished, Javert leaned his chin on his hands, deep in thought, tapping out a steady rhythm with his fingers on the desk. This was a long and complex tale, coming from an uneducated grisette. And that was probably all it was too. A drama made up to cause a stir. As Javert was about to rise and order Eponine to leave, she seemed to predict his line of thought and interrupted him.

"You think I'm lying, don't you, monsieur? You think I just want to waste your time, make a fool of you, or I'm doing this to spread the gossip of old women? Well, let me remind you of something. You know me." She leaned her face in closer, and an image suddenly clicked in place in Javert's mind.

Of course. _That Thenardier girl. _He'd sent her parents and sister off to prison, and had been chagrined not to send her away too. But there had been no evidence, in the end, that she had taken any part in the plotted murder in the Gorbeau tenement. She'd had an alibi and witnesses to vouch for her.

"If I wanted to stir trouble, don't you think I'd do it to somebody who hadn't already sent my entire family to prison?" She asked.

Javert raised his eyebrows. "Surely I would be the very man you would seek vengeance upon?"

"Hardly," Eponine snapped. "My parents got what they deserved. And at least then Azelma was being fed. But now, Monsieur, I need your help. Believe me, this was not a course I wanted to take," she added in disdain. Javert decided to ignore this.

A case. At last, a case that might actually be able to test his abilities as the best of the police. Then his superiors might take him more seriously regarding Jean Valjean. Javert had already decided he wanted this. But still he paused a few moments, not desirous of seeming eager.

"Very well," he said slowly, "I will consider the facts. Tell me more about the man, this Vichy."

"Well, Monsieur, here's the best part. If you catch him, you'll catch the most famous villains of the century. The Patron Minette."

Javert paused, snapping his head to Eponine. He gave her a hard stare. "It would be in your favor not to jest, mademoiselle," he said. If it were truly so...

Eponine smiled wryly. "Don't worry about that, Monsieur Inspector. You can even recapture my father while you're at it. Just think of that."

He did. The thought of bringing those murderers to justice, preferably to the noose, sent a thrill running down his spine. For years he had tried to get them, but always they were out of reach. Here was his chance at last.

He brewed over his thoughts and already started planning the trap. Yes, it would be a trap. Not without a bit of spying, first, of course, and baiting, and then he'd have them on the hook.

—

Eponine wearily went over the plan again and again in her head on her way back to Combeferre's apartment, preparing for what she'd tell them.

It had been an exhausting day. The hour had crept far past midnight, and all Eponine wanted was to go home and crawl under her covers. But she had to finish this.

She arrived, let herself in, and found Enjolras asleep at his desk, Joly and Combeferre on the couch, and Courfeyrac in the same place she'd left him, on the chair next to Annette. Eponine sighed. Should she let them sleep? She found herself staring at Combeferre's sleeping face, probably getting more rest than he'd had in a while.

The slope of his nose, how his glasses kept sliding down his face, the hair that fell over his eyes...all of these things were familiar things, things that brought a feeling of warmth. As she watched him Eponine hesitated, remembering the day Annette had collapsed on the ground.

_He wanted to marry me._

She'd pushed the event out of her mind, determined that she salvage whatever she could of their friendship this way.

A doctor's wife. What would that be like? What would it be like to be a wife? The thought nearly made her laugh. But why? Why did he want her, of all people? And why was it too easy to imagine being with him?

Eponine shook herself. What was she doing, thinking about such things? She should be thinking about her friend, and the danger she was in. But she couldn't deny that the only thing she wanted right then was to curl up next to Combeferre, forget all of their troubles, and fall asleep. The urge was so strong that her hands shook, and she became afraid that her body would do things her mind didn't want it to.

But of course, she was just tired out.

Eponine sighed heavily, wishing her friends would wake up. The air was so still. She wondered how they'd all fallen asleep in such uncomfortable positions. A smile crept onto her lips as she eyed the open bedroom door. Well, these boys could sleep on the floor for all she cared. All she knew was she'd be sleeping in a bed tonight. Tomorrow she'd tell them the plan.

* * *

"We're going to do _what_?" Courfeyrac asked in disbelief, his eyes wide after hearing Eponine's account of the other night.

"Don't be so dramatic about it, Courfeyrac," Eponine said annoyedly. Though she couldn't deny she had her apprehensions about the so-called plan herself. "It's all a matter of going undercover, which I've been doing for years."

"You _cannot_ use my sister as bait!"

That had been a rather unfortunate point to explain.

"She'll be safe, and it's better than her dying, right? Besides, there'll be dozens of people watching and making sure nothing happens."

"I don't think this is such a good idea, Eponine," Combeferre chipped in, his voice tense. "The inspector, what if he's setting us up for trouble? If he knows about the Friends of the ABC, it could be he's made the plan _against_ us, rather than _for_ us."

The plan had sounded simple coming from the inspector's mouth, but the more Eponine had gone over it the heavier the feeling of dread weighed in her stomach.

Eponine shook her head, feigning confidence. "This man has an incredibly narrow scope of the idea of justice. He's not going to focus on a few insignificant bunch when he has the chance to capture the most famous criminals of our age."

"Still..." Combeferre was uneasy, and he gave Eponine a look telling her to reconsider, to find some other way. But there was no other way.

"Do you trust me or not?" Eponine snapped. Combeferre stared back, his eyes suddenly intense.

"Of course I do."

"Good. Then trust me, and the only ones who get hurt will be the ones who deserve it." Eponine looked at the others. Enjolras, Annette, and Joly were still asleep. Better wake them now. Combeferre followed her line of sight and rose to shake Enjolras and Joly. He hesitated before Annette, then looked over at Eponine.

"She should be getting rest, but...she needs to know."

Where Enjolras and Joly had awoken with surly and bleary glares for being interrupted from sleep, Annette simply opened her eyes and sat up, immediately alert. As Courfeyrac gave a dramatized version of the plan to the three who hadn't yet heard, Eponine watched Annette with a scrutinizing gaze. When she heard she was to be bait to a man who had been hunting her cruelly for years, she didn't bat an eye but instead nodded and took it all in due course. It seemed to be Enjolras who was the most affected. Upon hearing the inspector's ideas for Annette he clenched his fists and shook his head doubtfully.

It took about another hour of arguing to convince everyone to agree; after all, it was for the sake of not only one person, but for all who might be prevented from harm in the future. Combeferre was the one who put it in this light, which was the final weight to tip the scale for Enjolras' reluctant agreement.

After this was resolved, they all sat rather despondently on the couch, crammed in, yet taking comfort in each other's closeness. Each seemed to be lost in their own thoughts: Enjolras' gaze was fixed upon some faraway point, the veins in his neck tense and clearly visible. Annette had a tentative hand on Enjolras', though it was hard to distinguish whether he sensed this at all. Courfeyrac watched Annette attentively with a curiously possessive look in his eyes, and Joly gave an occasional long sigh to show the inner conflict of his mind. As for Combeferre, seated just inches away from Eponine, he had his chin resting on his hand, clearly deep in thought.

It was Annette who broke the silence next, with a surprising excitement and alacrity.

"Etienne, I know this may not be ideal timing, but there's something you need to know."

Courfeyrac looked to Combeferre, who shrugged. Courfeyrac made an odd gesture with his hands. "For Christ's sake, Annette, please do not tell me something that will damper our already wet spirits. Look at the lot of us, like dogs, we are. All of this moping about because of an ambitious lover. Is it good or bad? If it is good, let us hear it. If it is bad, then, I suppose, how much worse can it possibly be?"

"Quite philosophical," Annette responded drily. She hesitated, unsure now, but Eponine saw Enjolras give her hand a discreet squeeze of encouragement. "Alright, you know how I've always been the black sheep of the family, not being related by blood, and all that?" Her cheeks turned a very slight shade of pink, and Courfeyrac nodded quickly, looking down.

"Well, last night...when I visited our..._your_ father, I didn't just ask him to revoke my fortune. He told me..." Again she stopped, unable to keep eye contact. "He told me...that your mother is _my_ mother by blood. She had an affair with a friend of your father's, a sergeant. I have a father, Etienne. His name is Gustave Reneau, and he—your father said he's dead, but I don't believe him." Her voice rose with her passion and fervor, a certain gleam suddenly visible in her eyes.

Everything was silent, and Annette stared at Courfeyrac desperately. "He could be still alive," she tried again falteringly. "Technically, we are brother and sister by blood. What do—"

"Do not go looking for him." Courfeyrac's voice was loud all of a sudden. Annette stared back at him.

"Why shouldn't I?"

To this it was Enjolras who responded. "He might be a man of bad character, firstly, indicated by the sort of relationship your mother had with him, being a friend of her husband's. Then he is probably dead, as your father said. I don't know about your problems with him, but I see no reason not to believe him. Do you think a man who has never seen you, not likely even known of your existence, would welcome you with open arms? That you would be able to form some kind of family with him? It would be foolish, you must realize. More likely than not he is dead, or has his own family and does not wish to be disturbed by a girl from more than twenty years from his past."

Enjolras' words were harsh in a way that made Eponine grow hot with indignation. They might have some weight to them, yes, but shouldn't he know better by now not to be so...so...what word could even describe the callousness, honesty, and brevity of those words? _Enjolraic_. Only Enjolras could have the worst social skills while having the best of intentions. Annette flushed red, and abruptly stood, her weight lifting from the couch causing Enjolras and Courfeyrac to sink closer to each other.

"I am not stupid or _foolish_, as you seem to believe. But all of my life, Etienne—" (she turned her attention to Courfeyrac here)—"your father has made me the outcast because of our mother. I never belonged there, and even when he made this clear, still he forced me to pretend to. Is it so wrong to want to have at least a glimpse of my father's face? Have you ever thought, what would make our mother—well, you know—_stray_? She was loyal and loving. Remember, her marriage was arranged and forced. If she could love a man such as my father, then surely there must be something good in him? Remember—" her words were choked and she looked down for a hundredth of a second, before she fixed her gaze on Enjolras—"I'm going to die soon. _Soon_. I want to have met my father before I do."

Eponine beheld Annette as some strange specter then. At once she sympathized and longed with her friend, and yet could not understand other parts. She knew what it was to wish to have been cast a different lot in the way of fathers. To wish that there was someone else who might love her like they should. Yet to want to pursue the idea of this man—for that was all he was now, an idea—was puzzling and frustrating, and Eponine knew it would be a fruitless search. She, for one, had known three Gustave Reneau's in her lifetime; one a baker, another a fruit peddler, and the other a lawyer.

Joly broke the silence. He looked to Annette with pitying and gentle eyes. "Well, my friends, clearly Annette will either go on with or without us, so I for one think it's best that we be of use. You can rely on me, Annette." He rose and bowed, to which Annette embraced him. Joly sputtered in surprise. "Really! You mustn't excite yourself so, you know, what with—oh, dear." Joly sniffed worriedly. "I've been feeling a cold coming on these past few days, and I wouldn't want you to be affected."

Annette laughed a little and pulled away. "Well," she said matter-of-factly.

"Well?" Repeated Courfeyrac sourly.

Annette stiffened. "Will you help me find him or not?"

Courfeyrac said nothing. Finally, he assented. "I suppose I can't blame our mother for wanting some other bedfellow," he said. "Father snores like you would not believe. I would have had an affair just for that."

Annette shook her head, her eyes a little brighter. "You've had several for less." Then, slowly, she turned to Enjolras and Combeferre. "You should know I'm going to try no matter what. None of you possess the right to prevent me."

"I know," Combeferre said. "But...it doesn't seem the wisest course of action at the moment, especially with all of this taking place. And, well, it is bad enough for your health that you go out so frequently, on..._adventures_."

"I will not support this," Enjolras said quietly. "I believe there are some things you should keep in the past. It is too late to try to change your life like this. You should look to the future, not to the past."

Annette's face was void of emotion. She gave a tiny nod to them, and, unexpectedly, to Eponine. "And you?"

Eponine's heart skipped a beat as she laughed nervously. She was going to make her pick a side? Eponine realized that yes, that was exactly what Annette wanted. So far she had to with her and two against her, and it would be Eponine who tipped the scale.

"I don't want to pick a side, Annette. Find your father, if that's what you want. I understand wishing for a better one. Just remember he might not be any better than the first." Was that what she wanted to say? Maybe. She wasn't entirely sure. It didn't feel satisfying.

"Let us first make one thing clear. The most important mission is to end Blaise's hunting. Until that is finished, here should be no father hunting. Understood?" Joly asked.

Annette nodded. "Agreed."

—-

"So you are to be neutral in Annette's quest?" Combeferre questioned her later as he walked her home. Annette walked on ahead with Enjolras, both rigid and silent.

"There were five of us. There's no need for me to pick a side. I already know whose side I am on."

"Whose?"

"Whose do you think?"

Combeferre shook his head. "I'll be blunt. She hasn't got long, Eponine. You must be seeing it too. Discovering something upsetting or shocking could harm her. Here we already have her forced into this scheme, and if one day she decides to go off on her own she will get hurt."

Eponine said nothing, swallowing the lump rising in her throat. She'd convinced herself that she hadn't noticed Annette's recent thinness, or the permanent dark circles under her once sparkling blue eyes, the face that hardly ever smiled now, and the hands that shook. Over and over again she'd think, _she's just tired, busy, cold..._

Combeferre gave her a gentle nudge with his shoulder. "Perhaps we ought not talk about this now."

"No, I..." Eponine cleared her throat, watching Annette's slow steps, her rebelliousness and pride refusing to lean on Enjolras for support, as she'd been seen doing ofte before. "How long?"

"Six months, at most." Combeferre wiped at something on his face with his hand. Eponine felt her heart sink.

_Six months._

It wasn't enough. But Eponine would do everything to find Gustave Reneau. If there was one thing she knew, it was that she could find anyone she needed. She knew her way around all of Paris, and if she tried just enough, then Annette could be happy. It was what she deserved.

They walked on, their hands almost brushing. Eponine almost smiled from the warmth Combeferre's company seemed to provide.

The wind whipped mercilessly, cutting into their faces. Eponine winced as the cuts on her neck stung. Combeferre, noticing, commented on it.

"What is that from?" He asked, staring at the cuts. Eponine shrugged.

"The night you helped my sister. Last night, too. It's really nothing, though."

"Nothing" was not a good enough answer for him. Combeferre made her stop to look at the wounds.

"They're not too deep, but they can still get infected, Eponine. It'll hurt, but you have to clean the cut with alcohol and..." he gave her instructions as they continued walking, and Eponine stared at his lips moving, not hearing a single word he said.

"You'll make a good doctor one day," she said daringly. For some reason it took all of her courage to say this. Perhaps she simply wasn't used to giving compliments.

Combeferre smiled, but after what seemed a pause of reflection, it vanished and he grew serious. "I hope so, Eponine. I truly do."

She watched with regret as he and Enjolras walked away. One time she thought he looked back, but then he was too far away to tell. Eponine turned to Annette, linking her arm through hers as they reached their apartment.

"Everything will turn out fine," Eponine said.

Annette gave her a nod and looked at her as though trying to provide some sort of comfort for Eponine. "Of course it will. Why should we worry?"

* * *

The most difficult thing about setting a trap for Paris' most dangerous criminals is keeping the feeling of smug satisfaction from showing on your face. This was the dilemma Eponine was faced with as she waited on the corner with Blaise, Montparnasse, and Claquesous on March 17, 1832. Annette's twenty-fourth birthday.

For the last few months, Annette had been moving between Courfeyrac's apartment and Madame Poisson's. She'd long had to quit working at the Corinthe, and so the task of providing support fell to Eponine. She'd taken up a job as a seamstress. Though Courfeyrac and Enjolras payed for almost everything, Annette hated this and protested that she'd pay them back. Courfeyrac only ruffled her hair, to her annoyance, and Enjolras said nothing. Madame Poisson had been more than happy to take her in, insisting Annette and Eponine stay every night to play cards with her.

Now as they lay in wait, Eponine went over the plan in her head for the thousandth time.

Annette would come walking by to the bakery at eight o'clock (it was in the bourgeois parts of town, where people tend to retire to their beds early). She would be walking with Courfeyrac a little of the way to show Blaise she was not alone. They'd talk (a prepared conversation of course, constructed by Javert) and part a hundred yards before Eponine and Blaise's hiding place. Courfeyrac and Bahorel would be on the other side of the street, with three police officers and Enjolras on the other. They'd be ready.

Blaise had likewise thoroughly prepared Eponine. When Annette turned the corner, she'd approach from behind and gag her with a cloth soaked in chloroform, which would silently make her fall unconscious. Eponine would go to the church and find the elderly priest with the scar on his left cheek to consecrate the marriage, and by dawn's early light Annette would be dead and Blaise would be the owner of five hundred thousand francs.

Except there would be no chloroform. The "elderly" priest would be Javert in disguise, and with all of the Patron Minette surrounded outside by the police officers, they would have no escape. The police had their muskets and their clubs, ready to bring the fiends to justice as they saw fit. All that was left was to follow through.

The air was chilly and damp, and Eponine found herself shivering. She wanted this over with so they could move on and forget.

Then there was Annette with Courfeyrac, chatting and throwing her head back as she laughed at something he said. Eponine found herself impressed by her acting; when she'd last seen her, she was so pale with nerves that Eponine had been worried enough to get Combeferre.

Blaise dug his elbow into her ribs sharply, signaling her to get ready. Eponine silently took out the chloroform and spilled it onto the ground, pretending she was soaking the cloth in it under the cover of the dark. When Courfeyrac left, she started following Annette. One, two steps...in seventeen she overtook her and made a show of gagging Annette as she pretended to kick and shout and finally slump and fall unconscious.

Montparnasse slipped out from the shadows and in a moment had Annette in his arms, her arm hanging limply down. Eponine exhaled, telling herself that yes, this was necessary. Just a few more minutes...

They knocked on the huge oak door of the church, and a minute later the "priest" opened the door.

Eponine avoided looking at his face, afraid of showing recognition or laughing at the six-foot tall man hunching down in his priestly garments.

They were crossing the threshold...the candles on the altar glowed eerily, as though urging Eponine to succeed. Succeed, or they would all die.

Eponine held the smelling salts to Annette's nose with steady hands, and when she saw her friend open her eyes she looked down immediately. Annette rose shakily, and Montparnasse stood beside her, preventing her escape. As Annette protested and asked tearfully what was going on, why was he doing this, everything they'd rehearsed a thousand times, the police officers outside drew near. As Blaise grabbed Annette's arm and forced her close to him, she looked around her in a daze, as though she were truly resigned to this fate. As though the fear in her eyes was real.

Eponine dared a glance at Javert. He was wonderfully disguised, and it was so easy to mistake him for the old man they'd already had sent to prison. The priest had actually been a monk turned vagrant, who was working closely with Blaise. She'd seen him several times, with shifty eyes and lips that never seemed to close all the way. Javert now imitated him perfectly.

"Dearly beloved..." he began in a nasally voice. He droned on, gesturing between Annette and Blaise. Blaise stood smiling from ear to ear. He could have almost been mistaken for a happy bridegroom, if it hadn't been for the hungry gleam in his eyes. Annette was still and quiet, in other words, resigned and defeated.

"To make your relationship succeed, it will take...if you both come freely, and understand the responsibility and work..."

Eponine shifted uneasily on her feet. How far were they taking this? The police should be here by now.

"Do you take this woman to love and to cherish, or to steal from her a fortune of five hundred thousand francs?"

Javert's words rung out across the hall with an echo that caused a terrifying moment as all stood still in shock. Except for Eponine and Annette, of course. In that moment of surprise Annette drove her knee into Blaise's groin and they dashed out as the police rushed in, shouting and clamoring with their massive barking dogs at their heels.

The church was in a frenzy of shots fired, punches thrown, and shouting. Eponine watched Annette make it out the door, when she felt her arm jerked back and was forced to the floor.

Montparnasse stood over her with his knife in hand, his face a torrent of anger and fear. Eponine looked out at the scene behind him. It was just them, as everybody else preoccupied themselves.

"He's not giving you any cut of the profits, you know," Eponine shouted over the noise. Montparnasse tensed.

"That's what he'd have you believe, isn't it, _cherie_? Jealous you were unable to get in on it too?"

"No," Eponine replied. "He intended to turn you in afterward. There's a reward over your head, you know. So why stay with him? Go to America. Make your fortune there and forget Paris."

Montparnasse toyed with the blade of his knife, looking back. Eponine rose, brushing her skirts off with her hands. Montparnasse smiled that familiar but ever scary smile. The one reminiscent of a cat knowing it had a mouse in its clutches.

"Sounds just perfect, doesn't it? Blaise has got ten thousand francs stored in the old warehouse. I could be out of here and on my way by midnight." He grabbed Eponine by the shoulders and roughly shoved her outside. He kissed her as he pushed her against the wall of the church, hands rough and pawing. Eponine almost, almost gave in like the old days, but she didn't. She broke away, and Montparnasse pulled her to a hidden corner. _The others will be wondering where I've gone,_ Eponine thought. She swallowed the thought and turned her attention to the more important subject at hand.

"Go," she said. "Go, get out of here and make yourself rich somewhere else. What is here for you?"

"Fun," Montparnasse said. "That's all I need, 'Ponine. You like America? Let's go together. We'll bring Paris to those uptight colonists."

Eponine stared at him. Go? With him? To America? What had she done?

She watched the cool and confident turn of his lips, and the contradicting hopefulness in his eyes. She remembered the summers they'd spent together, he, who she'd gone to after Papa beat her or Maman threw her out. She remembered the slow drawl of his voice as he made her feel like a grand lady, tucking the flowers he'd pick from old ladies' gardens in her hair, singing crude love songs he'd picked up in the taverns. They used to sit together under that willow tree Annette loved in the Luxembourg, sitting side by side and not saying a word.

She also vividly remembered his silent threats, in public and in private. Any disagreement, and _flick_! His favorite knife was out gleaming for her to see, a warning. Any wrong move, wrong word, unwillingness to lie down and hike her skirts. That knife always shone between the two of them like a third member of the party, with a soul of its own.

Yes, he was charming, handsome, and smooth. But that was only the bare surface. At heart, all he'd ever be was a boy who would rather murder and steal than work honestly.

"No," Eponine said. "You'll be better off alone. You always are."

Montparnasse narrowed his eyes, stepping back. "You sure, 'Ponine? This is your chance to get away from your father. From poverty. You and I are the same. You'll never fit in with anybody else."

His words bit her sharply, and they were ideas Eponine had always feared. Was she a bad seed like him?

"Goodbye, 'Parnasse."

She cast a quick glance at him and knew she was making the right choice. She might not belong on the side of angels, but that was no reason for her to side with the devil.

Eponine ran through the streets, trying to find where the others had gone. She tried not to think about what was going on inside that church. Would Blaise get away? Would Javert succeed in his plan?

She flung her arms to the sky in frustration, when she spotted a group of shadows hurrying along the streets in the distance. There, Annette, Combeferre, and Grantaire we're going to the Musain. She could meet them there.

—

Combeferre stood rigid and still, his jaw tense and his veins showing in his neck as he stared unbelieving at a point near the church. Grantaire and Annette had already gone, and he had stayed to wait for Eponine. When she came out, it was with that tall, handsome dandy, that murderer. He watched them retreat into the shadows and kiss passionately, fingers running through each other's hair. Combeferre's heart convulsed painfully, and he had to steady himself on a nearby tree.

Had all those soft looks she'd given him when she'd thought he wasn't looking, were those nothing but his imagination? Had she confided in him like all the others, seeking only his steadiness and advice? Those moments when she leaned in, so frighteningly near and beautiful, her face just inches away, had that been nothing as well? What about when her hands always found their way to be nearest to his, barely brushing or almost touching?

Combeferre looked away and turned his back on the scene. Perhaps it might have been easier to analyze and think about had it been happening to someone else. But here, now, it was too fast, and everything he knew seemed lost in the moment. His feet automatically started moving, one in front of the other. His hands thrust deep in his coat pockets, Combeferre mechanically made his way to the Musain, away from the girl he loved.

* * *

As Annette and Grantaire reached the Musain, Grantaire stopped to turn to Annette.

"Everything alright?" He asked, his eyes searching.

Annette nodded, feeling surprised that she meant it. For the first time in months she felt like she could breathe again, now that the worst of all this was over. Finally she could forget about Blaise forever.

They walked into the empty cafe's back room hand in hand. They'd been running hands clasped since they'd gotten out of the church, stopping only occasionally for Annette to catch her breath. Somehow she felt lighter and freer than usual, and the usual aching in her chest was not so bad as it used to be.

Annette looked over at Grantaire carefully. He appeared different as well. The usual ironic and cynical look in his eyes was gone for the time being, and he seemed like he had just found a purpose.

He caught her looking at him and smiled a bit. "Happy birthday," he said.

Annette grinned, then looked down at their hands, still clasped tight. Grantaire cleared his throat and they let go at the same time.

Everything was going to be fine now. She could live her life with her past behind bars, as Blaise would soon be, and she and Enjolras could forget about all of it. Maybe she _could_ get better—after all, not everybody died from consumption. This little event that had taken but a few hours to complete took off the weight of seven years from Annette's shoulders.

They sat at the deserted tables, the chairs grating painfully across the floors as they pulled them out. The emptiness of the room gave Annette a strange feeling, as though she were in a room of ghosts. A sudden stab of curiosity shot through her heart as she wondered what had become of Combeferre and Eponine.

Before she could mention them to Grantaire he spoke.

"What a night, eh? This will go down in history one day. Maybe they'll commission me to paint the scene. I've already chosen the backdrop, we'll have a romantic sunset, with Blaise in the shadows and you in the light..." he stopped. "Are you laughing?"

Annette hid her face, wheezing as the image Grantaire painted came to life in her mind. Though it was unlike him to be so optimistic. She caught his eye, and realized something.

It had been months since she'd laughed.

Grantaire's eyes didn't quite match up to his smile, but they seemed to brighten at Annette's reaction.

"Take it easy, Annette. Enjolras won't be happy if I've killed you from laughter. Then he'll finally be able to say I'm a murderer, on top of everything else."

Annette coughed, a smile still on her face.

"Enjolras does not think so low of you," she said.

Grantaire shook his head. "Don't underestimate him, _cherie_. But let's forget this. It is a good night, no? You don't have to worry about a mysterious murderer anymore."

Annette's smile faded as she saw the complete despair in his eyes. How had she never noticed it before?

Confidently she reached across the table and gave his hand a squeeze. "Thank you," she said, for more than just his help. _You're better than he says you are, _she thought_._

Grantaire didn't meet her eyes. He pulled away and instead gestured to the piano in the corner, dusty and unused since the last time it had been touched.

"Might as well pass the time somehow, right?"

She was in the middle of Mozart's Sonata No. 11 when Combeferre entered, covered in blood. His light and usually neat hair was bedraggled and stained with dirt and blood, and there was a sense of urgency in his face.

Before either of them could speak, Combeferre said tensely, "Courfeyrac's been shot. Vichy escaped."

In the emotions that followed Annette did not stop to think about what had become of Eponine.

—

Courfeyrac lay stretched out on a cot in the Hôpital de la Charité. His eyes were closed, and his curly dark hair stuck limply in a sheen layer of sweat to his brow. His breaths were shallow and slow, and his entire chest and his shoulder was swathed in thick lint bandages. Sister Agatha, his nurse, a small and airy woman in her mid-fifties, sat nearby, looking up every few minutes from her needlework to make sure he was still alive.

The bullet had gone straight through his upper body, at the point just below his right shoulder. Another inch, the doctor said, and it would have completely shattered the bone.

Annette's lower lip trembled as she looked at him, somehow that great caring figure of her childhood defeated. Her eyes stung, threatening to spill out tears to drown them all. The only thing keeping her standing was the presence of Enjolras beside her, and she clung to his arm wishing every moment that she had never left them.

Why had she been so selfish? She'd allowed everyone to prioritize her safety, when she hadn't even thought about the consequences of the plan for everyone else. Here was her brother, barely alive in a hospital room because of her.

Swallowing down the lump in her throat she took a shaky step forward, letting go of Enjolras, and sat next to Courfeyrac.

"I'm going to stay with him," she said quietly.

Enjolras nodded, looking around for another chair. "Alright, I'll go find another chair and—"

"Alone." The words came out harsher than it should have been, Annette knew, and she had to look away.

Enjolras stared at her, uncomprehending. "What do you mean?"

"I mean you can go home," Annette fired. "I want to be alone with him, _mon_ _Dieu_! Please, just go." Her voice broke at the last words, and she saw Enjolras' expression turn hard.

"Very well," he said. He nodded to her. "I'll wait for you, however long it takes."

He turned and left, and it was just Annette, Courfeyrac, and the nun.

"When will he wake up?" Annette asked.

Sister Agatha looked up, slightly irritated. "I don't know, dear. Let him rest."

Annette sighed and settled in, staring st every little detail of Courfeyrac's face. He seemed peaceful, like a child. An especially fond memory stirred in her brain, looking at that sleeping face.

"_You're going to be in such trouble!" Annette shouted gleefully, clapping her hands together in excitement. She was eight years old, then._

_Ten year-old Courfeyrac stared in horror at the vase his father had purchased for their mother for ten thousand francs. It lay shattered in pieces on the marble floor, the swirled white and blue patterns twinkling in the light from the window._

_Courfeyrac took another glance at Annette. "I'll tell him you were an accomplice," he said in a moment of fear. Annette's eyes grew wide._

_"You wouldn't," she said._

_Courfeyrac nodded, almost smiling despite himself._

_"In a heartbeat."_

_"What are we going to do?" Annette wailed. She looked around, afraid to attract the maid to the disaster. Marie would be sure to lay the blame on her._

_Courfeyrac thought for a moment. "There's only one thing to do," he said solemnly. "We have to run away. We'll pack food and we'll walk to Grandmother's." Their grandmother lived two hundred leagues away, but of course boys of ten hardly ever think of such trivial matters._

_They packed apples and cheese and bread from the pantry into the large picnic basket from Maman's room. When Annette put the strawberry tarts in, Courfeyrac shook his head and took it out._

_That was what scared her that day. The fact that Courfeyrac was leaving behind the tarts meant this was a serious situation. If Courfeyrac was afraid, what would become of Annette?_

_Still, Annette snuck some tarts in her skirt pockets, just in case._

_They made it all the way to Madame Lefleur's garden with the angel statue before they decided they were too hungry and tired to go on. They hid themselves in the bushes behind the statue, eating the tarts and the bread as if they hadn't seen food in years. When Courfeyrac saw the tarts, he was grateful for Annette's resourcefulness._

_"If you wanted them you shouldn't have told me not to pack them," she said spitefully, giving him one of the more damaged ones. Courfeyrac rolled his eyes._

_It was with great sorrow that Courfeyrac noticed they had eaten more than three-quarters of their supply. How they were supposed to last for another hundred and ninety-nine leagues, neither of them knew._

_By then it was nearly dark, and Annette nodded off to sleep, her head resting on Courfeyrac's shoulder. Courfeyrac soon followed her into sleep, and it was thusly they were found by their parents the next morning, who had had three teams of police officers searching for them for hours._

Annette started at the sound of the nun's voice.

"Watch him, won't you? I have to see other patients. If he wakes up and he needs something, let me know."

Annette nodded numbly. Left alone with Courfeyrac, she felt awkward and afraid that he would wake up. What would she say then?

Yet all she wanted was for him to open his eyes, even for a moment, to give her that look of teasing reassurance, telling her it was alright.

She waited for hours. The nurse came back, and, finding Annette still there, cheerfully went about her other duties. Morning came and Annette never slept. She found herself replaying Combeferre's explanation as they rode at breakneck speed to the hospital in the coach.

—

"I was on my way back—" Annette didn't notice how he failed to mention Eponine at all during the whole ride. Not one of his melancholy looks attracted her attention or her curiosity. Her mind was solely on Courfeyrac. "—when I heard Courfeyrac yell. I ran back, seeing him on the ground. By then Blaise was held by Bahorel and Enjolras, but as they looked at Courfeyrac Blaise took advantage and escaped. The police officers got the others though, except—except one." His face was strained at the mention of the latter.

"Is he dead?" Annette had whispered through her fear.

Combeferre shook his head. "The bullet went straight through, fortunately. Apparently Blaise has a gun with him. He was bleeding heavily, but no organs were hit."

Then Annette had tuned out as Combeferre and Grantaire talked rapidly about something. She no longer cared. She only counted the minutes till she could see Courfeyrac.

At the hospital, they met Enjolras and Bahorel.

"Annette!" He called, his voice full of relief. He took her hands in his, his eyes reflecting Annette's worry.

"I want to see him," Annette said, tears inadvertently spilling onto her cheeks.

Enjolras hesitantly pulled her close to him, ignoring the stares they got from the nuns. "I know, Annette. But it'll be a while. I already tried, and they won't let us in."

"They had a police officer escort him out," Bahorel said, trying to relieve the tension. "When Enjolras got angry, one of the old nuns called him a 'bad angel.'"

Grantaire smiled grimly, remembering his many puns on Enjolras' name. Annette still worried. Where were the others? Feuilly? Jehan? Joly? Bossuet? Had they heard what had happened?

It was three hours till they were let in, and then the rest of their friends came in a rush, alerted by Grantaire about the events that had transpired. They crowded around Courfeyrac's unconscious form, some crying, most of them silent and pale. After a while Annette had asked to be alone, and only Enjolras stayed.

So here she was, alone in the hospital. Waiting, forever waiting.

—

Eponine stared at the empty walls of the Musain. _Where is everybody?_

She'd been waiting two hours; had they left and forgotten her?

Surely something either must have delayed them, or they had changed their plans. They must be going to Combeferre's apartment, yes, that was it.

Yet no one was there when she knocked. When she picked the lock and opened the door, searching the place from top to bottom (which was quite ridiculous in itself; what would three grown people be doing in the cabinets or hidden in he closets?), still no one. Eponine shivered from the cold feeling of loneliness that crept down her spine. Something must have happened, right? Would they just leave her without a word?

Had someone gotten hurt? Maybe Annette had fainted again. But then, why wouldn't they have continued on to the Musain? Nothing made sense.

Eponine started to worry. She tried not to panic, but it was difficult finding herself so alone. She told herself not to cry; she never cried, and there was no point in starting now. She found herself in Combeferre's room, inhaling the comforting scent of coffee and burning wood and old books, everything that reminded her of him. The sight of his books, his notes written in his familiar hand, they comforted and reassured her.

Her friends hadn't left her. They would never leave her. They must be out somewhere, either in danger or in need of her help. She had to find them.

She left the apartment and started off again in the streets, running at top speed. She called out their names, _Annette! Grantaire! Auguste!_

No answer.

She slowed to a walk, panting heavily, when it started to rain. She cursed her ill luck, and felt the feeling of despair once more creeping in on her. She was barefoot, like she'd been in the old days, and she was wearing one of her rattier dresses. She felt as though after all these years, she'd gone backward instead of forward.

She almost started crying again, when she saw a shadow hurrying through the night, in the direction of the Musain. Eponine almost ignored the man walking, until she recognized Combeferre's gait and coat.

"Auguste!" She called, her voice undoubtedly joyous. She started running towards him, ignoring the cold splashes of water going up her legs. "Auguste, wait!"

Combeferre turned around and saw her. His face was almost unrecognizable when she saw him, covered in blood as he was. It was him though, with his hay colored hair and his glasses, which now were broken and barely on his face. Suddenly Eponine tripped and went sprawling facedown into a puddle. She looked up painfully, only to see Combeferre walking away again, as though she had never existed. She called out over and over again, but he never looked back.

Too exhausted to move, Eponine lay in the streets, soaked to the bone, and for the first time in what must have been since childhood, she began to cry.

* * *

Enjolras sat alone on the cramped chairs the nuns had made him sit in, counting the minutes that passed since he'd left Annette. She would want him with her eventually, she would. He needed to be there for her and Courfeyrac.

Courfeyrac's accident made him think. Guns and bullets and injuries had always been abstract concepts before, something depicted on paper but not in real life. Seeing his friend in so much pain and being completely useless, those things had shaken Enjolras to his core. He wondered, could he put his friends through this voluntarily when the time came? Could he make them stare bullets and blood and death in the face, and be willing to lay down their lives for an ideal?

Enjolras took a deep breath to center himself. It wasn't an ideal; it was a future. Their future. The next generation's future. If they didn't rise to the challenge, who would?

This is what he told himself as he tried to push Courfeyrac's pained screams from his mind.

—

Combeferre decided to spend that night at Jehan's. When Jehan opened the door, the bitterness and dejection must have shown on his face because he pulled Combeferre in with a pitying look and shut the door behind them. Combeferre tried to immerse himself in the plants lining Jehan's walls, reciting their Latin names and identifying their classification. It helped to calm him for the time being, until Jehan began to question him.

"What a terrible night! How could things have gone so wrong, Auguste? I should have been there, but no, you said, there were already enough people. I could have helped, you know."

_Eichhornia crassipes, anthophyta._

Jehan hesitated as Combeferre continued his silent recitations.

"There's something else, isn't there?" His voice was gentle and kind, and Combeferre knew Jehan had most likely known ever since he'd stepped foot in his apartment.

"It's Eponine," he said slowly, glad to finally have someone to talk to. Always, _he_ was the listener. It was nice to have someone care. _Like Eponine did, _Combeferre found himself thinking.

Jehan nodded, urging Combeferre to speak.

Combeferre fingered the edge of his cravat. "I saw her, just before we were supposed to go together. She was...she was with another man, with..." he racked his brain, trying to remember the names Eponine had told him. "Montparnasse. She did not seem as though she wished to be...interrupted. I waited for her, Jehan, thinking how if Blaise were caught, perhaps we had a chance. I always reasoned that it must be Blaise that was holding her back. Did you know I asked her for her hand in _marriage_? She didn't even let me finish." He shook his head, feeling the bitterness swallow him whole.

Jehan's brow was furrowed in an expression of deep pity, yet he appeared optimistic.

"What did she say?"

"Nothing. She never mentioned it again. Except that every day she gives me looks, words, touches, and I think—just maybe—she cares."

"Perhaps you don't know the whole story, Auguste," Jehan said softly. "What she says and what she feels may be different. Have you ever read Shakespeare?"

Combeferre sighed. He ran his hand through his hair, which was damp from the rain, and suddenly he felt terrible about what he'd done. He'd left Eponine, his friend no matter what circumstance, alone in the rain. Doubtless she'd been searching for him, and he had just abandoned her on the streets, all on her own. He stood up, suddenly overcome with the desire to see her, talk to her, get the answers he'd been wishing for. He put on his coat and his hat, remembering Eponine in the rain without a coat, without shoes.

"Where are you going?" Jehan asked.

"To find Eponine."

—

She was alone, all alone. The only reason Combeferre would leave her like that was because he must have been upset with her—and Eponine didn't think she'd ever seen him upset. He must have seen her with Montparnasse. What else was there? They had laughed and chatted together as usual only hours ago. Nothing had changed.

One of the only true friends she had made in her life had left her. It was for the best, no doubt. Time and time again she'd hurt Combeferre, prodded him too hard, pushed him too far. He must have misunderstood. Eponine groaned in despair, already picturing what that scene must have looked like to him.

What could she do now? If Combeferre did not want her anymore, who would? She wouldn't have Annette for long, she knew. Everyone would leave her and she'd be back to where she'd been a couple of years ago, an illiterate, unwanted gamin.

Eponine sat in her bitter puddle of misery, her teeth chattering in the cold. _I should get used to this,_ she thought. _The streets will be my home again soon._ She bit her lip, remembering being spat at by strangers, kicked by the men, gossiped about by the women. Already she could see her future around her.

Eponine rose, shivering, trying to rub her numb arms to bring back warmth and feeling, but she was too cold and tired even for that. She walked a little way to get out of the rain, and sat down in the protection of a broad roof.

As she tried to find a comfortable position, she heard a voice call her name from the dark.

"Eponine! Eponine, are you still there?"

It was his voice.

His voice was like warmth: hot tea and naps in the leather armchair by the fireplace; like home: the smell of coffee, burning wood, and old books. Eponine didn't dare look up. She must be dreaming, hallucinating, one of those. Maybe she'd died from the cold already and this was it.

The thought did nothing to ease her mind and Eponine found herself suddenly distressed. She didn't want to die _now_, did she?

"Eponine!"

His voice was closer now, almost as though he were just a few yards away. He wouldn't see her, though, not in the dark, obscured as she was by the rain and shadows.

Should she call out to him? Should she reveal herself? But what did he want from her? To hurt her again, to remind her of her bad side?

Yet Eponine knew he was better than that.

"Auguste?" She called, her voice barely above a whisper. Over the rain and wind it was a wonder he ever heard her.

She looked up, finding him crouching next to her. His face was washed from the rain, and his hair was plastered to his forehead. His glasses must have been totally ineffective, as they were splattered with raindrops. She didn't know whether to be relieved or wary of his presence.

He offered his hand out to her, his eyes full of apology. Eponine swallowed, unwilling to give in. He'd left her. What was he doing here now? Why should she go anywhere with him?

"Eponine, I'm sorry," he said, his voice muffled by the rain. "I should have waited for you, and I was wrong. Please, come with me. You'll freeze out here." His voice was as it always was, calm and cool and collected. Eponine had always marveled at his consistency in everything. Only now, his voice was not consistent with his face.

He was not apathetic to anything. His face was tense and worried and sorry and so many other things. He was not always in control. He was not always perfect. He was sorry.

Eponine took his hand, marveling at his warmth. Combeferre helped her stand up, then drew his hand back, frowning.

"You're already freezing, Eponine." In one swift move he removed his coat and placed it around her shoulders. Eponine didn't bother protesting; she was too cold, and the coat was so warm from his body heat.

They walked together through the rain side by side. Eponine felt absurdly relieved and happy. She was not alone. _He came back for me, even in the rain. _No one had ever done such a thing as that for her.

"Where are we going?" She asked after a while.

Combeferre hesitated. "To my apartment. You can at least warm up there."

Eponine nodded, grinning secretly to herself.

_I am not alone._

—

Annette had fallen asleep when Courfeyrac woke up the next day in the middle of the middle of the morning. He watched her eyelashes flutter in her sleep, heard her slow and steady breathing. He noted how tranquil she appeared, stirring vague and jumbled memories of strawberry tarts and angel statues. He watched her through a painful throbbing haze, and almost didn't notice when she opened her eyes and gasped.

Annette found Courfeyrac staring at her when she awoke, and, startled, nearly fell out of her chair. She heard Courfeyrac chuckle, then groan as he affected his injury.

"How do you feel?" Annette asked anxiously, taking his hand and squeezing it, intending to never let go.

Courfeyrac winced. "Shitty. Sorry, Annie. What happened last night?"

Annette paused, unsure of how to deliver the news. "Blaise got away."

Courfeyrac cursed violently, again apologizing half-heartedly. Annette shook her head at him with a tiny smile.

"You should rest your impressive vocabulary. All that matters now is that you're alright."

"No, Annie, it's not." Courfeyrac's voice rose, and Annette worried he would hurt himself. "All of these months of misery have been so that he would finally be put away where he belongs. Can you truthfully tell me that you don't think this has been a waste?"

"I will not let it be a waste," Annette said.

Courfeyrac stared at her. "What does that mean?"

Annette looked away, biting her lip. She shouldn't tell him this, not here, not when he was hurt.

"Come on, Annie, tell me." Courfeyrac said angrily.

Annette turned to him quickly. "Be careful, Etienne, you'll upset the wound."

Courfeyrac was already attempting to sit up, and was leaning on his left elbow.

"If you don't tell me I will open these bandages and let it bleed," he said threateningly.

"No! What is wrong with you? Do you want me to get the nuns to tie you down to the bed?"

"Well, that depends. Are they nuns—" he made an extremely sour face— "or are they _nuns_?" He grinned cheekily, and Annette had to remind herself that her brother had been shot, and she was not allowed to slap him in the face.

Annette sat back and sighed. Courfeyrac's smile faded and he squeezed her hand, and Annette noted how weak it felt.

"Tell me and I'll behave," Courfeyrac said.

"How exactly?"

Courfeyrac sighed. "Like children in church."

Annette stared at the floor. "You were hurt because of a plan to protect me. How is that fair? Your life is worth more than mine, and we both know it. What if more people got hurt because of what I dragged them into?"

"So we were supposed to let a gang of murderers kill you and take your money? And what about other people? You wouldn't be the only one to get hurt by them. Annie, I'm sorry, but your logic here is flawed."

"But I'm not the one who got hurt!" Annette replied, the heat in her cheeks rising. "You were!"

"So what are you saying?" Courfeyrac looked at her steadily.

"I don't know." She didn't know anything. All she knew was she didn't want to be the reason her friends died young.

They sat in silence for a long while. Finally, Courfeyrac asked, "So what are the nuns like here? Were they swooning over my unconscious body?"

It was a last attempt to cheer her up, Annette knew. Which made it all the worse. Why was he trying to make her feel better when _he_ was the one lying in a hospital bed?

* * *

Later that day, Annette silently slipped out of Courfeyrac's room. The doctor had come in to give him some brew to help with the pain. Courfeyrac had firmly resisted until they brought Sister Belle in. Her face and figure did match her name's standards. He would be asleep for a while.

In the hallway, Annette saw Enjolras, asleep in a tiny chair next to a young priest. The priest smiled kindly at her, and rose to offer his seat.

"Oh, no, you do not need to—"

"The boy has been waiting all night, and I suspect the two of you have much to discuss."

Annette nodded gratefully to him and sat down. When the priest left, she drew in a deep breath, trying to bring herself to do what she knew was necessary. She couldn't help but stare at Enjolras' sleeping face. It was so strange seeing him this way, quiet and needing sleep like everyone else. _Grantaire_ is right, she thought. _No matter how long you've known him, you never do get used to that beauty._

She felt a painful twinge in her heart, and tried to stifle her guilt and sorrow. Annette gently nudged Enjolras' shoulder, and watched as he opened his dazzling eyes in an instant. Every moment she looked at him, he seemed to grow more unbearably beautiful in every way. It took all of Annette's strengths to push back the memories she shared with him, trying to force their way from her heart to her brain. It was all the more difficult for her to look at him because she knew she had to let him go.

"Annie?" He said drowsily through half-closed eyes.

Annette attempted a smile, but it felt more like a grimace. "Do you want to come for a walk with me? I need to get away from here for a while." Her voice was shaky and unusually high, she could tell. She was nervous, she was afraid. How could she not be?

Moreover, she was devastated.

Enjolras leaned his head on his hands, seeming as though he were about to reply. It took Annette a minute to discover he had fallen asleep again.

"You didn't sleep at all, did you?" She asked, wondering how many more ways she could feel worse.

Enjolras shook his head and stood up. "It's of no importance, what with everything that's happened." He offered her his arm, which Annette took. "How is he? Did he wake up?"

Annette was grateful for his slow pace as they walked on. "Yes, he's alright. He is back to his usual self already. Flirted with every one of his nurses so far, even the Mother Superior. Maybe even the priest."

Enjolras let out a dry laugh. "That's good, I suppose." They were silent for a while, until Enjolras asked carefully, "Was there something you wanted to talk about?"

This was truly happening. She would have to tell him. Annette stopped, and Enjolras turned, waiting for her. They stood in a deserted, badly lighted, empty hallway, the perfect atmosphere for crushing souls.

"I..." Annette decided she just wanted to get it over with. "I cannot be with you anymore."

Enjolras furrowed his brow. "What do you mean?"

"We have no future together, Enjolras," Annette said. Her words felt like daggers in her throat.

Enjolras stared at her, then his gaze broke away. He shook his head, as though trying to be patient.

"What's wrong, Annette?"

"Nothing is wrong." Annette found herself about to abandon her mission. Looking into those eyes that always made her feel warm and wanted and excited, she wanted to drown in them and stay forever.

But she couldn't. It wasn't fair to him.

"Then tell me, Annette. Because from what I understand, you are telling me we have no future. You're _dismissing_ me like Courfeyrac does his mistresses?"

Annette swallowed, the words stinging in ways she didn't know they could.

Enjolras sighed, running his hands through his hair. "I'm sorry, Annette, it's only—I've been waiting all night and I am tired. Tell me why."

His voice had entered a cool and diplomatic way of speaking. Annette's heart plummeted into her stomach as she recognized the tone he reserved for chiding Grantaire and arguing with Combeferre. Everything personal and familiar seemed to be drained from him.

"Enjolras, Etienne barely survived a plan that was centered around me. How is that fair? You all have done so much for me, and I have done nothing to deserve it. I—Combeferre said six months. I have barely two left. I'm not worth all this trouble. You know it, no matter how much we dance our way around it. I do not want to hurt you any more than I already have."

She began to feel tears creeping into her eyes as she spoke. She felt the damage that such words could do to their relationship, and she knew it was risky exposing herself like this. Yet that was the least Enjolras deserved.

When Annette looked at him, she was surprised to see his face was stricken. He took a few steps away from her, then returned, beginning his telltale pace of agitation.

"Why are you telling me this? Do you really feel this way?"

Annette knew her face must be as red as his favorite waistcoat.

"I'm not looking for your pity, Enjolras. _Mon Dieu, _this is what I was trying to avoid." Her heart pounded away in her chest like a thousand galloping horses, racing away up to her throat. "You have a life to live, time to change the world. I don't want you to—to _mourn_ me." God, the words sounded terrible coming out of her mouth. "Do you know how much it hurts for me to know there will be so much time I'm missing out on with you?"

Enjolras stopped pacing, standing right in front of her, just millimeters away. Before Annette knew what was happening, he was drawing her close, and everything around them seemed to disappear.

"God, Annette, don't you know I would gladly die a hundred times so you could live another day? So you could be happy? You've already changed the world—my world." His voice was so soft, so intense, yet so sad. "Annette, you once told me—you said I was afraid to be true to myself, and I was. Now you have to remember what we have been fighting for together all this time."

Annette's mind whirled with his words. Her heart was suddenly light and full of air and she felt as though she were floating, floating up and away with just him.

But what goes up must come down.

Annette gently placed her hands on those of Enjolras, which were on her waist. Slowly she removed them, and for a brief eternity she held them.

"I love you more than I ever thought I could love another person," Annette said, her voice barely anything more than a whisper. Enjolras looked back at her with steady, trusting eyes, deep and endless and infinite in all their character. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." Her voice broke, and suddenly she couldn't bear to look at him anymore. She didn't know what to do.

"Annette."

She was on the verge of tears, about to break away from him. She had to. She would any second, before it was too late.

"Will you marry me?"

* * *


End file.
